Pregnant Pause
by Lampito
Summary: Dyswitchia, noun: a learning disability that renders one unable to learn not to piss off witches. Dean has it. Sam knows that. What he doesn't know is exactly what spell hit his brother. Dean, of course, is taking one of his luxury cruises up Denial.
1. Chapter 1

**DISCLAIMER:** They're not mine, which is just as well, because I'd have to buy shares in a distillery to keep one, and shares in a lettuce farm to feed the other.

**TITLE:** Pregnant Pause

**RATING:** T. Until such time as Dean is reincarnated as a nun, and takes a vow of silence.

**SUMMARY:** Dean suffers from dyswitchia, a learning disability that renders him unable to learn to stop pissing off witches. Sam knows that. What he doesn't know is exactly what the vicious old bat did to his brother. Dean, of course, is taking one of his luxury cruises up Denial.

**BLAME:** I don't know yet, but when I find out who sent this particular plot bunny to pester me, I will have some _serious words_ with that person. As usual, I suspect the Denziens of the Jimiverse, in which I will set this story (since so many Denizens, Visitors, Lurkers and Casual Droppers-In are so fond of Jimi). Really, sending them to double team me when I already have a story on the go is just mean - this little bastard WOULD not SHUT UP until I wrote a first chapter.

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><p><strong>Chapter 1<strong>

Learning disabilities are funny things. Funny peculiar, not at all funny ha ha. They can take many forms, and have highly specific effects. Dyslexia renders otherwise normally intelligent and articulate people unable to learn to read when taught in the typical manner that works on their unaffected peers. Those with dyscalculia are innumerate, having difficulty grasping the simple rudimentary concepts of number, quantity, and time. Dysgraphia describes difficulty in acquiring the skills of handwriting and spelling. Identified early enough, these disabilities can be challenged, and overcome.

Sam had long ago worked out that Dean suffered from dyswitchia: he apparently has an innate inability to learn to stop pissing off witches. Unfortunately, his diagnosis didn't come to light until he was already a young adult. Which was a shame, as early detection and intervention are crucial to dealing effectively with a learning disability. But Sam was always determined that, having identified the problem, he would do everything he could to maximise the chances that one day, Dean would eventually learn. One day. At some time in the future. The rather distant future.

Maybe after he'd been dead for a couple of years.

But not yet.

Which, he surmised gloomily, was probably why they were currently on the side of the road while Dean threw up everything he'd eaten for the past week, and then some.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...**

She didn't like children. The old lady had been quite open about it when they'd confronted her. Children were noisy, smelly, dirty, disorderly, _vexing_ things. They used crude language, their footballs sometimes came into her yard, they petted her cats without asking first, Girl Scouts tried to sell her cookies, Boy Scouts offered to mow her lawn or carry her shopping, and the way the older ones dressed, well, there had been _words_ for girls who dressed like that when she was younger and _none_ of them were complimentary, then on Halloween, when she was _extremely_ busy, they had the cheek to show up at her door, demanding candy!

"Oh, and don't get me started about Christmas," she went on snippily, with a most expressive cat's-ass face of total disapproval. "The little wretches roam the streets. By day, they throw snowballs, and build inappropriately anatomically correct snowpeople. By night, Goddess above, the go carolling! The brazen little brats come right to my door, young man – right to my door! Gallivanting gangs of tuneless teenagers and tots, launching aural assaults of mangled renditions of what are supposed to be songs! They sound like the anguished wailings of the damned in one of the outer circles of Hell!"

Dean glared at her. "They don't sing Christmas carols in Hell, lady," he snapped. "Although some of the demons do put up mistletoe, and believe me, you make damned sure you do NOT walk underneath it…"

"And then," the old witch went on, bristling with outrage, "They expect me to reward them with cookies! They're obsessed with cookies, I tell you! When they're not trying to sell them to me, they're trying to cadge them from me. This town is better off without any more. I'm doing everyone a favour."

"That's not your decision to make," Sam told her angrily, "Afflicting this town with infertility just because you don't like children is cruel and selfish beyond description. You have no right to interfere with other people having families, just because you don't like them! It stops now."

"No, I really don't think so," she told them smugly. "So you two eager beaver little Boy Scouts can leave right now, before I decide that you are vexing, too."

"Oh, but we haven't offered to help a poor old lady yet," smirked Dean. "Can we mow your lawn for you? I know, how about we help you with your garden? That really interesting herb patch you have out front. Maybe we could do a bit of work on that?"

She scowled. "Leave now. If the police are all I summon to deal with you, be grateful."

Dean sighed sadly. "You know, we only need our Disruption Of Evil Spells merit badges to get to Eagle Scout," he told her. "Look, I already have my Recognition Of Occult Plants Considered Extinct In North America badge!" he went on brightly, pulling the remains of a small carefully topiaried shrub out of one jacket pocket.

The witch's face went from annoyed to angry. "That plant was irreplaceable!" she shouted. "Give it here!"

Dean snatched it out of her reach. "Nah, I think we'll just pull up the rest," he smirked, opening the front door. "Okay, Jimi! Dig! Dig!"

She moved to a window, where she could see the Winchesters' dog enthusiastically excavating the rest of her carefully laid out spell garden.

"You vandals!" she shrieked, "That spell took years to prepare and cast!"

"Is it just me, or is it cold in here?" asked Dean. "I know, let's light a fire!" He pulled out his zippo, and set fire to the bedraggled shrub he was brandishing. "There, that's better!" he said cheerfully, throwing it into the fireplace.

"Nooooooo!" howled the witch, making a grab for it. The small plant burned merrily with an interesting blue glow.

"Next time, if you gotta cast infertility spells, just cast 'em on yourself," Dean told her, "Because lady, you are as ugly inside as you are ourside." He cocked his head. "No, wait, that won't be necessary," he decided, "Because no man would get within shouting distance of you, let alone close enough to impregnate you."

She let out an inarticulate scream of rage.

"Er, Dean," began Sam.

"Still, it won't be a problem," Dean went on cockily, "Because after this life, you are so going straight to Hell. Watch out for the mistletoe at Christmas, is my advice."

"Er, Dean," Sam tried again.

The old woman made a dash for the sideboard.

"Looking for this?" Dean asked helpfully, waving a small, battered-looking book.

"Give me that!" she hissed, making a grab for it.

"No, Madam Fugly, I really don't think so," Dean's smirk widened, as he tossed her grimoire into the fireplace. "Ah, I love me an open fire," he sighed happily. "Maybe we could roast some chestnuts, sing some carols, what do you think, Sam?"

"Dean, I think you should learn to stop pissing off witches," replied his brother.

The old witch narrowed her eyes. "Evelyn Waugh did observe that 'Manners are especially the need of the plain; the pretty can get away with anything'," she mused to herself, "And you are so very pretty, aren't you? What a lovely daughter you would have made for your mother. So fond of children, too…"

With a speed and strength belying her age and apparent frailty, she sprang at Dean, grabbing for his head, muttering in a guttural language and radiating malevolent intent. Sam had his gun out and trained on her before she reached his brother, putting two shots into her. She still managed to grab a handful of Dean's hair before she fell.

"OW!" He pushed her away roughly, "Shit! That hurt!"

The old woman sprawled on the carpet, still muttering, and managed to throw the hair she'd yanked out onto the fire. It flared briefly with an intense blue light.

"So pretty, and so rude," she wheezed, coughing up blood. The Winchesters realised she was laughing. "What a lovely woman you would have made…"

It was easy to make the scene look like a gas oven explosion set off by an elderly woman losing her faculties; she had few acquaintances and fewer friends in the town she'd been cursing, and was known as a crotchety, unpleasant old biddy who was probably a few beers short of a barbeque.

"Shit, Dean," scowled Dean, "What is it with you and pissing off witches? It's like it's in your DNA! See witch, must piss witch off. It's practically Pavlovian!"

"I gotta get my entertainment where I can in this line of work, Sammy," Dean grinned, "Because God knows, the pay sucks."

"She did something," Sam persisted, "She was saying something, a spell, a ritual of some sort. She used your hair. She did something to you, bro."

"What, like turn me into a frog?" asked Dean cheerfully. "I'm not getting any urge to kiss princesses, Sam. Except maybe Princess Kate. Or her sister, Pippa. Dat ass, Sammy…"

"She's not actually a princess, she's the Dutchess of Cambridge," corrected Sam.

"She's married to a Prince, she's a Princess," said Dean firmly. "Actually, I'd tap that, whether she was a princess or not."

"I don't doubt it," Sam muttered, "But that witch did something, Dean. I think we should head back to Bobby's until we figure out exactly what she did."

"And I think you should stop being such a mother-hen, Princess Samantha, and concentrate on looking for our next job," Dean replied. "Don't worry, I don't want to kiss you."

"That's a relief."

"Or grab your ass."

"Good to know."

"But I do think you'd rock that wedding gown. The lacy sleeves would be so flattering to your biceps…"

"Jerk."

"And you've got the hair to carry off a tiara. French roll, perhaps? And some lovely matching diamond earrings…" Dean broke off suddenly, and drew in a shuddering breath. "Oh. Er…"

"Dean? Dean, what's wrong?" demanded Sam. Jimi whined anxiously from the back seat.

Dean just shook his head, and pulled the car off the road with a screech of protesting tires. He opened the door just in time to throw up copiously.

"Oh, gross, dude," complained Sam, wincing.

"Tell me about it," moaned Dean between heaves. He shuddered. "I think I just threw up my pancreas."

"Here." Sam offered him a paper napkin and a bottle of water.

"Not done yet." Dean convulsed again. "Oh, no, goodbye kidneys."

"We should go to Bobby's," Sam asserted. "I'm telling you, that old bitch did something."

"Shut up, Nurse Samantha," Dean managed a weak smile, "It's probably just the Ghost Of Burritos Past. You did tell me not to eat 'em this morning."

"That's true," admitted Sam. "Leftovers for breakfast, okay, but you really should draw the line at leftover leftovers. Even Jimi turned his nose up at them."

With a last groaning heave – "Sam, is it possible to throw up a chunk of liver, or does the whole thing come as a unit?" – Dean sat up, looking decidedly green. "See?" he quavered with a wobbly smile. "All better now."

"Good. Now move, I'm driving."

"Nuh-uh, I'm not stepping in that."

"Fine. Drive forwards a few feet first."

Dean muttered mutinously, but did as Sam instructed.

"You are totally over-reacting," he mumbled, as Jimi reached forward from the back seat and sniffed anxiously at his Alpha. "Now, onwards to our next job! You said there was a, er, hang on, don't go anywhere…"

Dean opened the passenger side door, and began calling for someone called Ralph again.

"I don't remember eating that," he mumbled. "Sam, what does an appendix actually look like?"

Sam sighed and slumped into the seat. Denial was not just a river in Egypt – if Dean was on one of his luxury cruises again, he'd just have to wait it out.


	2. Chapter 2

An Etsy yarn called Dean Winchester? Srsly, now I've heard everything.

It's a case of duelling 'Pregnant Pause' and 'Best of Breed' plot bunnies at the moment - whichever one is pestering me the loudest will get some of its next chapter written. Little bastards. They know I can't be having with mpreg stories.

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><p><strong>Chapter 2<strong>

"Seriously, I think there might be something wrong with you," said Sam worriedly. His brother had shown the same pattern for three days now: waking up an attractive shade of green, throwing up and being unable to keep air down all morning, then feeling better by lunchtime, and happily stuffing his face with all manner of disgusting junk by the evening. "This puking every morning thing isn't normal."

"Maybe I'm just not a morning person, Sam," smirked Dean, shoving another bunch of fries into his mouth, "And cheeseburgers are the world's most effective cure for a hangover."

"You're not drinking enough to be hungover," insisted Sam. "Enough to kill a small pony, perhaps, but not enough to affect you. It could be something affecting your health. You could be developing Irritable Bowel Syndrome, or coeliac disease, or a food intolerance, or an infection..."

"The only thing that's going to develop here is Irritable Dean Syndrome, if you don't stop whining about my non-existent health problems," grumbled Dean. "We don't want that. Symptoms include pranking, loud music, and little brothers only being allowed to travel in the trunk, if not being left on the side of the highway altogether."

"Fine," humphed Sam, with a shot of _Bitchface_ #7™ (You Can Be Impossibly Unreasonable Dean, You Know That?), "We'll just wait until you start throwing up blood, collapse from electrolyte imbalance and pass out at the wheel, then when the firefighters cut us out of the mangled wreck of the car, perhaps we can ask the A&E physicians to have a quick look at your insides while they're on the outside…"

"Sounds like a plan, Sam," agreed Dean with his most infuriating beaming smile. "Don't steal my fries." He slid out of his seat and headed for the restrooms.

"What? Again? Dean, that's the second time in an hour!" Sam hissed after him.

"Probably just one of the symptoms of Irritating Sam Syndrome," Dean told him dismissively. "I'm not kidding, I've counted my fries, bitch."

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...**

Sam found them a job a couple of days later.

"So, this workshop is the go-to place if you have a tricky engine problem that you just cannot find and fix," reported Sam, scanning the chat group. "There have been sporadic deaths there since this guy died in the 1970s." Sam pointed out a black and white picture of a smiling young man posing with a racing car. "Not enough to really register as a pattern, unless you're looking for it."

"Who was he?" asked Dean, crossing his arms in front of himself.

"John McPherson, aged 34," Sam read, cross-referencing as he went. "He was an ace mechanic, worked at this auto shop, raced stock cars in his spare time. One of his contemporaries says here, 'Johnny could figure out what was wrong just by listening to a car. If it wouldn't run, he'd listen to it turn over. If it wouldn't do that, he'd talk to it'."

"He talked to cars?" Dean's eyebrows rose, and he smiled. "Hey, I like the guy already. How did he die? Racing?"

"In the workshop," Sam kept reading. "Someone stole his race car, Jezebel. He did all his own mods. The NASCAR rules changed dramatically in the early 70s, and this thing had blown the competition away in track testing. He was working on it one night – they jumped him, bashed his head in with a torque spanner, and stole Jezebel."

"What happened to her?" Dean wanted to know, sounding anxious.

"It was never found," Sam replied. "Apparently, they were smart enough to work out that anybody on the circuit would recognise Johnny's car. No parts ever showed up. Nobody was ever brought in for the theft, or the murder."

"So, vengeful spirit?" wondered Dean, sitting back carefully. "Or somebody sacrificing the occasional customer to some Machine God for occult mechanical skills? Some reanimation spell requiring human sacrifice to get Johnny to fix difficult problems?"

"Can't say, at this stage," mused Sam, "But I think we should go check it out."

"Damned straight," agreed Dean, "If there's a Machine God somewhere, I want to stop by, and pay my respects. If we do this right, I can worship the Machine God, and the Gods Of Pie both at once."

"Yeah, if you can stop puking for long enough to sing their praises without retching," Sam observed wryly.

"Heretic. No wonder the Machine God never blessed you with The Understanding. You do not show proper reverence to all things beautifully mechanical. Come on then, Sammy, daylight's burning." As he stood up, Sam saw the small hitch of breath that nobody else would have noticed.

"Hey, you okay?" he asked.

"What? Of course I am!" scoffed Dean. Jimi whined, and pushed a concerned nose under Dean's hand. "Oh God, not you, too, J-Man," Dean moaned, "Don't tell me Francis here has infected you with the Mother Hen Disease." He hoisted his bag to his shoulder, with a teeny tiny wince.

"There, you did it again!" asserted Sam. "What's wrong, Dean?"

"Nothing!" his brother snapped, rubbing absently at his chest, "I'm just a bit… sore. From puking, probably." He narrowed his eyes at Sam and Jimi. "Don't' you two dare try to double-team me," he growled. "If there is anything that is wrong with me – which there _isn't _– we will petition the Machine God to repair its humble and devoted follower, by making obeisance unto the mighty Four Stroke Cycle. And consuming pie."

"Wow, makes you wonder why people mess around with trips to Lourdes," muttered Sam, packing his own bag.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...**

"So, who's that?" asked Sam, pointing to a faded, dusty photograph on the wall of the auto shop's office.

"That's Johnny, our resident ghost mechanic," chuckled the manager, a middle-aged man in stained overalls with a name tag labelling him as Alan. "We can fit her in tomorrow – if you want to leave her here tonight, I can get one of the boys to look at her first thing. So, pulling to the left under brakes, but not all the time, is that right?"

"Yeah," confirmed Dean, "Damned if I can figure it out."

"You have a ghost?" Sam looked sceptical.

"Oh, it's one of those urban legends that's too good not to repeat," Alan grinned. "He worked here, some fifty years ago. A couple of the boys claim that if they have real trouble finding a problem, then they leave a beer for Johnny, he'll come out after dark, and leave a clue pointing you towards what needs fixing. I think they do it to prank each other, although they all swear it's not them – really, they're good at what they do. I'm sure they'll be fighting each other to get a look at your girl here," he eyed the Impala appreciatively. "She's a thing of beauty."

"Well, at least he's helpful, doesn't do anything nasty. He doesn't throw tools around or anything, does he?" joked Sam.

"Oh, no, apparently not," Alan reassured them, "We haven't had a vehicle damaged in the shop since I started here, ghostly or otherwise. Never had a theft, either, not so much as a spanner," he added, a little smugly. "He's never learned to put his empties in the trash, though." Alan rolled his eyes. "A trait, I might add, he shares with some of the guys here on weekends."

Dean was staring wistfully at the photo. In faded ink, it had the words 'Me and my number one girl' scrawled across it. "Jezebel," he whispered to himself.

They walked back to their motel, leaving the Impala behind. "There could be more than just mechanics pranking each other here," decided Sam. "So, tonight we come back with the EMF, salt rounds just in case, and watch, see if we get a satanic mechanic showing up to ogle your car... Dean?"

Dean sniffed, and rubbed a hand over his face. "Yeah, sounds like a plan, Sammy," he agreed gruffly, "Stake out my Baby, see if a ghost shows to feel her up..."

"Dean, are you okay?" asked Sam, taking in Dean's unusually bright eyes. "Are you... bro, are you tearing up?"

"No!" Dean sniffled again. He sighed, eyes shining. "It's just... it's just a sad story," he went on, a catch in his voice, "He built her from the ground up, and she was ready to blitz the competition. Jezebel, his... his number one girl. He loved that car, and somebody stole her, they killed him, and stole her, and she was never seen again. To think of her, dumped somewhere, wrecked and rusted and overgrown. She was a winner, and she never got to race. It's just a tragedy." He wiped his eyes again.

"Okaaaay," said Sam carefully. "You know, I really am starting to worry about you."

"Well, don't," Dean snapped. "I'm just... can we just get back? I think... if we're going to be freezing our asses off all night in a workshop waiting for some dead dude to turn up and grope my car, I want a nap."

"You want... a nap?" Sam stared at his brother as if Dean had just announced an intention to enter a monastery. "You, Dean Winchester, want to... take a nap?"

"Yeah, so?" Dean challenged him. "I'm tired, okay? I just feel... tired. It's the puking. And you keeping me awake during the night with your snoring." He crossed his arms protectively against his chest again. "You could do voiceovers for chainsaw advertising in your sleep."

"Okay, well, you can, um, nap, and I'll chase up some more details of the guys who died in the workshop," agreed Sam. "Your chest still sore?"

"Yeah, kinda," mumbled Dean, blushing slightly. Sam noticed, but didn't say anything. Dean was acting strangely enough. Maybe a nap would help. The bout of stomach flu he'd had was lingering, and seemed to be draining him of energy. Sam resolved to coax, wheedle, bully, drag or wrestle Dean to a doctor if it hadn't improved by the end of the week.

"I might head over to the library, if I can't find archived stuff online," Sam said as Dean sprawled on his bed. "You want anything if I go out?"

"Crackers. And some ginger ale," Dean replied, yawning. "And, and, and... some tomatoes."

"Tomatoes," repeated Sam. "You want tomatoes."

"Yeah, I want tomatoes," confirmed Dean, a trifle defensively.

"Tomatoes. Red, roundish, fruit tomatoes. Grow on vines, not made of meat, often found in salad tomatoes." Sam didn't believe what he was hearing.

"Those exact tomatoes, Sam," nodded Dean.

"Full of dietary fibre, vitamin C, fresh produce, good for you, no added sugar, not deep fried, tomatoes." Sam wanted to make sure they were talking about exactly the same foodstuff.

"I can see that you aced Tomatoes 101 at college, Sam. Well done. You might want to think about a shower, too," he wrinkled his nose, "You stink."

"I... what?" Sam glared at his brother. "I showered this morning! I do not stink!"

"Well, stop drenching yourself in aftershave, then," grumped Dean. "I swear, I can smell you from here."

"Right. Crackers, ginger ale, actual tomatoes, unscented deodorant, and another shower," Sam rolled his eyes. "Anything else?"

"Nah, we're good," Dean grinned at him as Jimi jumped onto the bed beside him, ready to do hot water bottle duty.

Sam did head out to the library not long after. By then, both Dean and Jimi were snoring gently, cuddled together contentedly. Sam took a picture before he left.

By the time he got back a few hours later, Dean was awake, and apparently feeling better. "So, how did the research go, Professor Francis?" he asked, smiling and stretching.

"Interesting," Sam told him, "I checked back issues of the papers. All the guys who died in the workshop? They were breaking into the place, and they all had prior convictions of auto theft."

"That would be consistent with a ghost who has a serious personal problem with car thieves," mused Dean. He sniffed at his arm. "Great, now I think I can smell me," he griped. "I've caught stinky from you." He pulled some clothes from his bag, and headed for the bathroom. "Don't worry, I'll leave some hot water for you, so I don't have to put up with your stench."

"Gee, thanks, I think," said Sam, sitting down and opening his laptop.

He'd only been cross-checking some of the articles he'd downloaded for a couple of minutes when a horrified shriek erupted from the bathroom.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH! SAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAM!"

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><p>Reviews are the Actual Tomatoes in the Salsa Of Life!<p> 


	3. Chapter 3

I have no idea where this plot bunny came from, DeanCasLover - I'm sure I'm not the first person it's pestered. It's a strident little bugger, marching up and down, blowing a whistle, carrying a sign reading 'MPREG'. It's recruited a little campaign group to help it. They picket my laptop, chanting 'Mpreg, mpreg, or we will shred your pants leg.' Pushy, pushy, pushy. Clearly one from the Denizens of the Jimiverse. (Denizens: they're depraved, but they get shit done.) I really, really am not keen on mpreg stories. Srsly. That's why I'm keen to stomp this one, in my own special way.

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><p><strong>Chapter 3<strong>

Sam burst into the bathroom before the horrified shriek had died away. "Dean!" he looked around, but saw nothing except his brother.

Dean stood, shirtless, peering in the mirror with an expression of utter horror at his right shoulder. "Aaaaaaaaargh!" he went again, for good measure.

Confused, Sam moved closer, and looked at the small red spot.

"It's a pimple," he observed.

"I know what it is, Sam!" wailed Dean, "What the hell is it doing on me? !"

Sam wasn't sure how to answer that one. "Well, pimples result from blockage of sebum glands in the skin, followed by a small localised infection," he answered, "resulting in an open comedo, or blackhead, or a small pustule, or whitehead, which looks like what you've got. Eating chocolate doesn't actually give you pimples, it's largely hormonally controlled." He peered at the offending spot again. "That's all it is, dude, nothing to worry about."

"Nothing to worry about?" echoed Dean incredulously. "Sam, it's a pimple! A zit! I have a _zit_!"

"Most people get pimples at some stage or another," Sam replied.

"Not the Living Sex God! The Living Sex God does not, _cannot_, have a zit!" raged Dean.

"Zits, plural," observed Sam casually, "You have one on the back of your neck, too."

"What?" Dean spun around a couple of times, trying to look at the back of his own neck. "It's not right, Sammy, it's so not right! I'm a devastatingly attractive man, who does _not_ get zits!"

"Devastatingly attractive, huh?" Sam cocked an eyebrow.

"False modestry sucks, Sam. Something's wrong!"

"Amen to that," muttered Sam, "Over-reaction, much?"

Dean's eyes narrowed. "That witch," he breathed, "She did this! She put an ugly curse on me!" He clutched desperately at Sam's arm. "You have to get rid of them, Sam!"

"What? Oh, no, dude, I am not doing zit removal on you!" Sam screwed up his face.

"I can't see properly!" yelped Dean, "Get rid of them! Get rid of them! Get them off meeeeeeee!"

"Oh, God," Sam dropped his face into his hands. "All right, if it will stop you squealing like a self-conscious teenage girl."

Some alcohol swabs, some tissues and a needle were deployed, and the Living Sex God was relieved of his disfiguring lesions.

"You know what's really weird about this?" said Sam, "Apart from the sheer weirdness of a grown man panicking because he's got a couple of spots…"

"The Living Sex God does not get pimples," growled Dean.

"…Okay, what's even weirder than the Living Sex God panicking about pimples, and referring to himself in the third person, what's really weird about this is, that's one of the grossest things I've ever had to deal with, and considering what we've had to stitch each other up from, that's saying something."

Dean muttered darkly about unfeeling ungrateful little brothers, and shooed Sam out of the bathroom.

When Sam emerged from his own shower later, he found Dean blissfully cramming a tomato into his mouth, making the sort of almost-pornographic noises that usually accompanied consumption of particularly good onion rings.

"Ohhh, these are good," he muttered, juice and pips running down his chin. "You want one?"

"Er, no," Sam stared in horrified fascination. "In fact, seeing you eat them, I'm not sure if I'll be able to face tomatoes for the rest of the calendar year."

"Your loss," shrugged Dean, biting into another one, "They're juicy, and delicious. I swear, they taste red."

"Well, enjoy," Sam told him. "Just don't spoil your dinner, make sure you leave room for your, er, cheeseburger."

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

The nap and tomatoes snack had an amazingly restorative effect on Dean. By the time they'd eaten (Dean reverted to cheeseburgers) and were making preparations to break into the auto shop for some ghost watching, he was his usual cheerfully annoying self.

"So, what exactly is wrong with the car?" whispered Sam, eyeing the EMF meter as they hid behind a work bench where they had a clear view of the Impala. Somebody had left a bottle of beer on the floor in front of it.

"I'm pretty sure it'll be a brake hose with a damaged lining," Dean whispered back, "She started doing it about a week ago. It's hardly noticeable, but it's there. I know my Baby. I was thinking we should head back to Bobby's after this job anyway so I can look at it…."

His breath misted in front of his face as the temperature dropped several degrees. Sam indicated the meter, which was jumping around in silent mode. They looked back to the shop floor.

The top suddenly twisted off the beer. The contents drained, then the bottle fell onto its side, rolling across the floor.

A young guy in stained overalls walked out of the wall, jumping like a movie from a faulty 8mm projector. He walked to the Impala, put a hand on the hood, and smiled.

Dean watched, entranced, as the ghost ran a hand along the duco, clearly admiring the car. Johnny stood at the driver's door, and laid his cheek on the roof.

"He's… talking to her…" breathed Dean. Sam performed a mental facepalm.

The ghost frowned, then crouched and crawled under the car, to emerge a few moments later, smiling again. He ratted around in a scraps bin at the back of the garage, until he found what he was looking for.

He wrenched the piece of brake line until it tore open, and laid it carefully by the driver's side door, with a spanner next to it. He smiled at the Impala again, appearing to offer some encouraging words, before disappearing.

"Well, it's not the mechanics pranking each other," said Sam when Johnny had faded out.

Dean was still staring at where the ghost had communed with his car. "But is he connected to the deaths? All he did was talk to my Baby, and smile at her, and tell her she's beautiful…" he gave a small sniffle. "Come on, I gotta take a leak…"

"Why didn't you go before we left the motel?" grumped Sam.

"I did. And now I need another one."

At the rattling noise from the outer doors, they both dropped back behind the bench.

The man who was breaking in wasn't nearly as stealthy as the Winchesters, but it quickly became clear that he didn't intend to stick around for long.

"Hey, I recognise him," whispered Sam, "Or at least, I recognise his jacket. He was in the office yesterday."

"Casing the place," growled Dean, as the intruder moved along a work bench with a flashlight, picking up tools. Having made his selection, he moved silently to the driver's side door of the Impala. A small strip of metal flashed in his hand.

"Oh, like hell you do, asshole," hissed Dean, moving to stand up.

Before he could challenge the would-be car thief, the ghost in overalls appeared behind the man, face twisted into an angry snarl, a large wrench upraised in his hand. Johnny brought the wrench down hard on the thief's head, and raised it again as the man collapsed.

"No!" Dean yelled, bursting from their hiding place. The ghost paused, surprised, and looked at him. To Sam's amazement, Dean lowered the shotgun. "Don't, Johnny," he said to the ghost, almost pleadingly, "Don't do that." The ghost eyed him suspiciously, hefting the wrench thoughtfully. "Look, I can understand where you're coming from," Dean continued, "God knows, he just tried to steal my Baby… my number one girl… if it was up to me, I'd say he should burn in Hell for eternity." He gave the unconscious thief a small kick. "But it's not up to me. What they did to you, and your car, was wrong. But… don't do this."

The ghost of Johnny McPherson lowered the wrench, and smiled heartbreakingly at the Impala, as Sam moved to stand behind Dean.

"Dean, what the hell are you doing?" Sam hissed.

"I'm talking to him, Sam," said Dean, "I'm talking to a man who… he misses his car. That's it, isn't it? You miss her." Johnny smiled sadly again. Giving the Impala a last fond pat, he disappeared.

Sam stared uncomprehendingly at his big brother. "Since when did you come over all compassionate intuitive?" he demanded. "What happened to Mr Shoot First And Don't Even Bother To Ask Questions Afterwards?"

"It's his car, Sam," sniffed Dean sulkily, giving the would-be Impala thief another kick. "I don't expect you to understand. But we have to find it, so he can move on. It's what's holding him here."

"How the hell are we supposed to find a car that was stolen fifty years ago?" demanded Sam. "We can't do that!"

"Maybe not," agreed Dean, eyeing the picture of Johnny on the wall, "But I'll bet I know a dog who can."

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

They returned to the workshop the next day, when Dean's green complexion had faded to barely noticeable. There was a certain buzz of agitation.

"What happened here?" asked Sam.

"The alarm went off last night," Alan informed them, "The police found some guy out cold on the floor, next to your car." He looked grim. "The bastard had helped himself to some of the most expensive tools, and they suspected he might've been casing your car." He snorted angrily. "Stupid asshole must've slipped, cracked his own head. If the alarm hadn't gone off, he could've laid there and bled to death. Frankly, I wouldn't have been upset. However," he smiled, "The good news is, the guys found and fixed the problem with your Impala."

"What was it?" Dean enquired earnestly.

"Brake line. The lining was damaged, a small nick near the connector. No wonder you couldn't find anything. Tricky. Didn't find it til they pulled it off and cracked it open, but there it was. She's as good as new."

"Thanks, Alan," smiled Dean, handing over a credit card in the name of A. Young, "That would be tricky to find. Tell your boys I think they really do know their stuff."

"Oh, they're claiming that Johnny found it for them," the shop boss rolled his eyes, "But the important thing is, she's fixed. So long, sweetheart," he smiled at the car, "Happy trails, guys."

"So, what now?" asked Sam, as they headed back to the motel.

"I think we wait until dark, then go looking for Jezebel," decided Dean, yawning and wincing.

"Dean?" Sam pressed in a querying tone. "What's wrong?" _Now_, he added in the privacy of his own head.

"I'm fine, Sam," muttered Dean, his face colouring slightly.

"You don't look fine, and you don't sound fine," persisted Sam, "You look uncomfortable. What is it? You feel sick again?"

Dean's face flushed redder. "Mnblsrsr," he mumbled, squirming.

"What?" Sam looked perplexed.

"Mnblsrsr," Dean repeated, turning as red as the tomatoes he suddenly seemed so fond of.

"You wanna try that again with a few vowels?" snarked Sam.

"My nipples are sore! Okay? You happy now?" shouted Dean, looking miserable. "Mr Nosy has all the details he needs, does he?" He squirmed again.

"Jesus, Dean, I was just worried because you looked uncomfortable!" said Sam placatingly. "No need to bite my head off just because I'm worried about you!" He eyed his brother sideways. "What have you been doing with them, anyway?" he went on, unable to help himself, "It's not like you've kept female company for about a week, now, which is a strange thing in itself - no, on second thoughts, do NOT answer that question..."

Dean interrupted by breaking wind with some ferocity. He smiled. "Oh, God, that's better," he sighed.

"Bro, what the hell?" asked Sam. "I really think we should get you checked OH FUCK ME!" He gasped, and spluttered. "OH – MY – GOD! Dean! That is… beyond putrid!"

"He who smelt it dealt it," smirked Dean.

"No, really, bro, that is, ugh!" Sam flapped a hand. "That is totally toxic!"

"He who detected it, ejected it," hummed Dean cheerfully.

"Seriously, something is wrong with you!" Sam angrily wound down a window. "The throwing up, the napping, eating damned tomatoes, turning emo on me! And now, that! That is rancid, even for you, and that's saying something!"

Dean produced another sonorous blast. "He who observed it, served it," he smiled.

Sam scowled viciously. "How old are you, Dean, six? And you have the gall to accuse me of gassiness!"

"He who deduced it, produced it," intoned Dean seriously.

"Stop it! Just, stop it! Before I suffocate! Or we drive past someone with a cigarette, and go up in flames!" coughed Sam.

"He who denied it, supplied it," trilled Dean.

Sam kept up a litany of complaint about Dean's gastrointestinal ghastliness all the way to their room. He started his laptop, checking on the last resting place of John McPherson.

"Casper the mechanic was cremated," he noted, "So you're right, it's probably something in his car keeping him from moving on."

"It's an emotional connection," insisted Dean, stretching out on his bed, as Jimi joined him, keen to indulge in some cuddling with his Alpha.

Even the dog cocked his head and whined when Dean let fly once more.

"That one rattled the windows!" complained Sam, "And it'll probably dissolve them, too," he added, as the blast front hit him. "I'm going out for a walk, and some breatheable air," he griped, picking up his wallet and jacket. "You want anything?"

"More tomatoes," answered Dean, yawning and closing his eyes. "And… and… some yoghurt."

"Yoghurt," repeated Sam.

"Yeah. Yoghurt. Blueberry yoghurt." Dean settled with Jimi. "And... a tuna sandwich."

"Got it." Sam opened the window as he left. That was it, he was dragging Dean to Bobby's after this job. Maybe this was that witch's doing, and maybe it was something worse than stomach flu. If Bobby couldn't figure out what was wrong, they could double-team him to a doctor, hogtied, gagged and stuffed in a sack if necessary. At the very least, Bobby could sit on him while Sam shoved the cork up his ass.

If he was lucky, the lactobacillus in yoghurt would help restore the balance of Dean's intestinal flora, which right now seemed to be severely, pathologically,_ toxically_ out of balance in his brother right now.

If he was _really _lucky, he thought, before he returned someone would walk past the open window with a lighted cigarette and their room would go up in a spectacular fireball.

* * *

><p>Reviews are the Living Sex God Doggy Style Cuddles on the Bed Of Life!<p>

...

(Um, that really didn't come out how I meant...)


	4. Chapter 4

*****SPECIAL BONUS FEATURE: DELETED SCENE FROM CHAPTER 3*****

*Paralesky is working hard on a conference presentation*

_Knock knock knock_

_Sound of large feet running away_

**Paralesky:** ? ? ?

*she opens her front door. Someone has left a large sack on the doorstep.*

**Paralesky:** I don't remember ordering any potatoes...

*she reads the note pinned to the sack*

'_I can't cope with him any more, please look after him thank you PS Don't let him near any naked flames'_

*the sack wiggles*

**Paralesky**: It better not be full of plot bunnies.

*she opens the sack. It contains a hogtied, gagged Dean Winchester, who looks up at her with big green wistful eyes*

**Dean**: Plea' le' me ou', I bromise I be goo'.

*Paralesky removes the gag*

**Paralesky:** Why are you on my doorstep in a sack?

**Dean:** The other option was worse – they threatened me with a cork.

**Paralesky: **Hey! Give me a hand with this!

**aeicha:** It's not full of plot bunnies, is it?

**PaulatheCat:** Meow.

**Bartlebead:** It's quite attractive when he squirms like that, isn't it?

**Leahelisabeth:** How convenient that he's shirtless, that'll save time.

**elf:** Do you have any chocolate sauce?

*they drag the sack inside*

* * *

><p>Denizens of the Jimiverse - they're depraved, but they get shit done.<p>

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 4<strong>

It was the tomatoes, Sam decided, as they stood outside the haunted auto shop once more. Dean's digestive tract was so completely unaccustomed to dealing with actual fresh vegetable matter that it was fermenting, with pungently fragrant and remarkably musical results.

"Jesus, dude," Sam irritably flapped a hand at his big brother, "If you keep doing that, he won't be able to follow any scent, and somebody is bound to come looking for whoever is lurking around in the dark, playing a tuba in the middle of the night."

"Stop bitching, Francis," grumbled Dean, fumbling the purloined picture out of the frame.

"You want to explain to me why you're trying to get the dog to follow a fifty-year-old scent trail?" Sam queried sceptically.

"He's half-Hellhound, Sam," Dean answered "One thing we know about Hellhounds, once they're sent to hunt someone down, they don't stop until they find 'em. Things like time and space don't matter to a Hellhound." He knelt down beside Jimi. "Johnny wrote on this picture," he continued, "So it's the best shot we have at something carrying his, I don't know, cosmic signature. He worked on his car himself. If there's a trail from this place, it should lead us to Jezebel." Dean showed the photo to the dog. "What's this? What's this, Jimi?" he chirped eagerly, as the dog sniffed intently at the picture. "Where is it? Where is it, fella? Track! Track! Track it, Jimi!"

Jimi sniffed the picture again, then raised his nose to the darkness...

_It was an old, dusty trace, faded to the physical senses, barely a molecule left for his canine nose to detect. Beyond that, though, it was a memory of a keen presence, redolent of youth, happiness, a certain recklessness, promise, potential..._

_He felt his Blood rise, and monitored the air. Old, the trail was old, the trace was older... overlaid by blood, anger... and time. His Blood peered back through the decades, like layers of tissue paper over a photograph removed until the picture was clear..._

Eyes glowing the red of banked coals, Jimi barked once, sharply, and set off at a brisk trot along the road, sniffing the tar, sniffing the air, and following a trail no completely mortal tracker dog could detect, to the edge of town and beyond.

The Winchesters followed in the Impala.

With only one stop for Dean to take a leak.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

The tumbledown barn was two hours out of town, and had probably been abandoned when the trail Jimi followed first led to it. Half the structure was open to the elements through the collapsed roof. The rest of it was packed with rusted, disintegrating machinery that was probably of some agricultural use before it started to rot away.

It took them another hour to clear away the roof timbers, tangled metal and assorted pieces of detritus, using the Impala to drag some of them clear. In the gloom, a low hump under mildewing tarpaulins came into view from under the mess.

Something crackled under Sam's feet as he moved closer. It proved to be the largely skeletal remains of a man, dressed in mouldering dark clothes.

"Ew, crunchy," he remarked. He bent down to examine the remains. The skull had clearly sustained the fatal wound, a large section having collapsed inwards under a savage blow. "Looks like he's been here a while."

Dean wasn't listening. He was working the tarps off the vehicle hidden in the darkness.

The tyres were perished, the windows clouded, and the interior was disintegrating, but it was unmistakeably the car from the photo.

Dean ran a hand along the hood. "Jezebel," he breathed, smiling, "You're Jezebel."

He took in the vehicle's lines. "Look at you, you must've been a hell of a ride in your day... it's okay, sweetie," he crooned to the car, while Sam rolled his eyes, "We're here now. We've found you. Everything will be okay, I promise."

Sam turned his flashlight inside the car. "He must've been inside it when he was hit," he suggested, "That's blood spray. Jeez, it's everywhere, on the windscreen, the dash, the seat."

Dean peered thoughtfully at the corpse. "I wonder if Mr Crunchy here was the thief," he mused. "With so much of Johnny sprayed around inside her, he could manifest here if he wanted to. Maybe he followed his own blood, killed his killer while the bastard tried to stash her away." He gave the skeletal body a kick. "Asshole car thief. Totally deserved to die painfully. Being a murderer certainly didn't do anything to help your case," he muttered, "I hope you went straight Downstairs. AND I hope you don't realise that you're under the mistletoe until it's too late..."

"Er, Dean," Sam broke into his big brother's outraged mutterings. Despite the chill of the night air, the temperature dropped several degrees more...

Johnny was standing by his car, grinning cheerfully. Sam raised his shotgun, but Dean forestalled him.

"It's okay Sam," he told his brother, "He's just here for his car. She's magnificent, Johnny," he said to the ghost, "She's... beautiful. I wish I could've seen her race."

"Dean," Sam began, "Why is he here? If his killer is dead, why is he still hanging around?"

Dean shot an anguished look at the ghost, but Johnny smiled sadly, and nodded. Dean gulped. "Okay," he said, "Okay, I think I understand." He turned to Sam. "He's been waiting for somebody to find her. So he can... so he can take her with him."

"What?" Sam looked back in disbelief at his brother's words, and the hitch in his voice. "That's ridiculous! You can't take a car with you when you die, Dean. Cars don't have souls!"

"Shows how much you know," Dean replied in a thick voice. "Come on, we have to send her on her way."

Sam didn't argue, he just helped his brother scatter salt and gas in and around the car. Dean fiddled with his lighter as Johnny gave them a big smile, and a cocky salute.

"Enjoy the trip, man, wherever it takes you," Dean said in a quavering voice, eyes full of unshed tears. He flicked the lighter.

The barn was old and weathered, and crammed with junk. It burned readily.

"We should get going," Sam asserted, throwing his shotgun into the trunk, "It's pretty isolated, but it's a hell of a blaze, somebody might come to investigate..."

As they watched, a ghostly shape shot out of the burning building. There was a brief flash of a happy face, smiling and waving, the roar of a worked V-8 soaring for a moment above the noise of the flames, then the translucent image of Jezebel shot across the adjacent field, and faded into the darkness.

"Well, this job's done," grunted Sam. "I guess those guys will have to start actually pranking each other, no more ghost mechanic..."

As he turned around, Dean hurled himself into Sam's arms.

"That's so beautiful," his big brother sobbed, "He's been waiting for fifty years, and finally, they're together, forever now – Johnny and Jezebel, his number one girl, and nothing will ever separate them agaiiiiiiiiin..." A fresh onset of sobs shook through him.

"Er, yeah," agreed Sam, deciding that humouring his big brother was probably the best strategy for the moment. Reluctantly, he put his arms around Dean, and patted him on the back. Not too hard; he didn't want to squeeze any further flatus out of him, not so close to the burning barn.

"It's so tragic," wailed Dean, "A young man in his prime, and a car ready to take on the world – they could've been champions, Sam! They could've rewritten NASCAR historyyyyyyyyy..."

Sam shot a pleading look at Jimi, who pointedly turned away and started licking his own genitals. _I'll cuddle him tonight, Second – for this, you're on your own._

"Um, probably," nodded Sam, as Dean wept into his jacket. He frowned to himself; Dean had done this for him many times when he was a child, how did it go? "Er, there there?" he added uncertainly, patting Dean's back again.

"It's not fair, Sammy," sniffled Dean, "It's not fair, it's so not fair, he was my age, Sam, he was only my age! He was talented, and handsome, and he loved his car, just like meeeeee…"

"Yes, he was," soothed Sam, cringing inwardly, but realising what he had to do. "Dean, this is as close as we could get to a happy ending in a case like this. He died tragically, and… she was tragically stolen, and had, er, her career cut short. Tragically."

"It was a tragedyyyyyyyy," Dean howled anew.

"Yeah, it was, but," Sam forestalled a fresh outbreak of crying, "But, the important thing is, we finished the job - you worked out how to find, er, Jezebel, and you worked out what Johnny wanted, so although it might be a tragic story, they have, er transcended their tragedy, and will now drive on down the Heavenly highway together, forever. He'll have eternity with his number one girl, to turn her into the ultimate racing car. She'll be a work in progress, and, and, and all of Heaven will echo with the sound of her engine, and, er, her exhaust will linger as incense unto the Heavenly Host, and massed ranks of ecstatic dear departed race fans will sing her praises unto all of Creation, until the angels themselves will smile to see such happiness and love in the bond between a man and his car."

Dean stopped sobbing, and looked up at Sam. "That's beautiful, bro," he said, a smile breaking out on his face.

"It is, isn't it," Sam managed a smile. "Come on, let's get out of here. I think we should head for Bobby's, for a bit of down time. You're not well, Dean, and this job has been, er, emotionally draining."

"Yeah, I guess you're right," agreed Dean, with a yawn and a wince.

"You still sore in the, er, kind of…?" Sam waved a hand generally at chest height. Dean's blushing scowl was extremely eloquent.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

"That has to be one of the strangest things I've ever seen," mused Bobby two days later, after Sam described their last Hunt to him. Dean sat in his kitchen, happily eating tomatoes, having polished off two pots of yoghurt.

"It's definitely a weird symptom," nodded Sam, "Although I think 'wanting to eat tomatoes and yoghurt' might tie for first place in the Weirdest Symptom Contest with 'sobbing desperately over a ghost and his car'."

"I didn't sob, I was overcome with the poignancy of the moment," clarified Dean, dribbling tomato pips down his chin. "And we totally did _not _cuddle, Bobby. It was a brief, brotherly, manly hug."

"So, you think a witch might've had something to do with this?" queried Bobby.

"There's nothing wrong with me! I've had a bit of stomach flu, that's all," protested Dean.

"I'm pretty sure she did something," answered Sam, relating their encounter with the witch.

"It is a coincidence," conceded Bobby. "But he hasn't turned green, or dropped dead, or sprouted antlers, or anything like that. Are you sure it isn't just something boringly medical?"

Sam looked perplexed. "Well, I did google his symptoms, but, well, I didn't get anything that made any sense at all."

"Well, we'd better have a look, and see what she might have done. Let's see her grimoire."

"We don't have it," Sam told Bobby, scowling at Dean.

"Why not?" demanded Bobby. "You think a witch has done something, the first thing you gotta do is grab her book…"

Dean looked sheepish. "I, er, might've, um, thrown it into the fire when I burned her spell shrub," he said in a small voice.

Bobby glared at him. "What the hell did you go and do a damn-fool thing like that for, ya idjit?"

Dean gave him a slightly abashed smile. "Er, because it was a dramatic gesture?"

"Because he is pathologically compelled to piss witches off," supplied Sam.

"Balls," muttered Bobby. "Well, I'm inclined to agree with you Sam, there's definitely something wrong with your brother. More wrong than usual, I mean…"

"Thank you so very much," griped Dean between tomatoes.

"…But figuring it out without knowing what she did, it'll be tricky." He looked at Sam. "What did your internet research turn up?"

"Like I said, it just turned up garbage," Sam replied, with a small chuckle, "The cluster of symptoms I typed in, all I could get was 'you may be pregnant', which is ridiculous, because it's impossible for a male to become…"

His voice trailed off. They were both staring at him, Dean in horror, and Bobby in thought.

"A spell like that, cast to affect a whole town, takes a powerful practitioner," Bobby stroked his beard thoughtfully. "And she did say you'd make a lovely woman. Plus, she had a handful of your hair."

Dean's face was turning green again. "No," he said firmly, "No, Sam's right, it's not possible for a man to be… you know, because a man doesn't have… and he can't… and he doesn't…"

"Come with me, Sam," intoned Bobby grimly, "We got us some research to do."

"What about me?" asked Dean in a desperate tone. "What should I do?"

"Try not to throw up on my carpet," instructed Bobby. He sniffed, and pulled a face, flapping a hand in disgust. "And go outside if you feel the need to do_ that_ again."

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

The research was slow going without knowing exactly what the witch had done. Their progress was not helped when Dean kept bursting into Bobby's study every half hour wanting an update.

By the end of the day, they were no closer to figuring out what the witch had done, Bobby was perplexed, Sam was worried, and Dean was anxious. And flatulent.

"We gotta work this out, guys," he muttered, spooning yoghurt onto another slice of pizza. Sam and Bobby exchanged A Look.

"We'll figure it out, Dean," Bobby assured him, "Then if it's something the witch did, we'll undo it."

"So, have you at least worked out whether I'm… you know… will I… am I going to… is it…"

"Not yet, Dean, but we will," Sam backed up Bobby's reassurances.

Dean kept pacing and muttering well into the night, keeping up a running monologue of denial – "The Living Sex God does not get… you know… he just doesn't!" – until it was past midnight. In exasperation, Sam made cocoa, and stirred a couple of antihistamines into it.

"Here, this'll help," he told Dean, "It's the tryptophan in the milk."

When Dean finally went to bed and was snoring, Sam let out a sigh of relief. He was worrying at the problem in his mind; Bobby hadn't been kidding, figuring out what the witch had done, if she'd managed to do anything before he'd shot her, would be damned difficult. Dean was likely to wear a track in the floor, kill them all with his toxic gas, or die tragically when either Sam or Bobby snapped and strangled him, before they worked it out.

He threw back the covers, knelt by his bed, put his hands together, and closed his eyes.

"Now I lay down for repose  
>I need some help, God only knows,<br>I pray to Cas, 'cause I'm afraid  
>We can't fix this without his aid.<p>

My brother, Dean, who calls me 'bitch'  
>Has, once again, annoyed a witch.<br>Alas, before she went to Hell  
>She had the time to cast a spell.<p>

What she did, we're not quite sure,  
>But now Dean claims his… chest is sore,<br>He cries, he naps, he wants to hug,  
>It's more than just a stomach bug,<p>

He's eating weird, he's throwing up,  
>His gas could kill a Hellhound pup,<br>The symptoms that he has all say  
>He could be in the family way…<p>

We don't know what the witch has done –  
>In his oven, put a bun? –<br>Dear Cas we really need your help  
>To work out whether Dean's in whelp.<p>

And if I leave this life behind  
>Tonight, at least my nose won't mind.<p>

Amen."

* * *

><p>...with a hug for emotional Dean, from his Sammy, as requested by aeicha.<p>

I had a motorcycle named Jezebel. She was stolen, Christmas 1991. I was so very sad. Sometimes I wonder if, somewhere, one day, we will be reunited in a cloud of blue two-stroke exhaust, and we will ride around Heaven until the Host themselves flap their hands in front of their faces and cry out "Oh, for Father's sake, that thing stinks, leave it and ride one of your four strokes..."


	5. Chapter 5

Gah! This vicious little plot bunny has its teeth in my leg! I'm NEVER going to get any work done at this rate... CURSE YOU EEBIL PLOT BUNNIIIIIIEEEEES!

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 5<strong>

"What are you doing, Dean?" They'd been at Bobby's for a couple of days – Sam helped Bobby, without much progress, try to work out what the witch had done. Dean spent the time tending his car, cleaning, tuning, polishing or sometimes just sitting in her, apparently talking to her. Jimi sat with him, his expression a mixture of concern and 'WTF?' that was remarkably reminiscent of a teenager who has been tasked to look out for a Special Needs child.

Right now, Dean was slouching on the sofa in the living room, stuffing Cheetos into his mouth by the handful, watching a sports channel.

"I'm celebrating, Sam!" he declared happily, "I'm celebrating the fact that when I woke up this morning, I didn't want to throw up my toenails through my nose! And, the Living Sex God is once more his perfect, handsome, irresistible, pimple-free self!"

"Glad you're feeling so happy, bro," commented Sam. It had been a pleasant change not to wake up to the sounds of Dean driving the porcelain bus to Woof City. "Actually," he went on, studying his brother, "You do look kind of, well, happy and healthy. If you were a dog, I'd say your eyes are bright, your coat is glossy, and your little nose is wet and cold."

"I can understand you being overwhelmed by my awesomeness, but it's all for the ladies, so go perv on someone else," Dean smirked, reclining comfortably on the couch.

"Are you saying you think he looks… radiant, Sam?" asked Bobby, wandering in and eyeing Dean thoughtfully. "His skin does look nice and clear, now."

Dean scowled at him. "I'm not radiant, because I'm not… you know," he muttered darkly, "I'm just happy not to be puking…"

Jimi stood up from where he was snoozing on the floor, sat in front of Dean, and barked twice.

"You want more Cheetos, J-Man?" asked Dean. "You've been eating more than your fair share while I've been feeling sick – bitches won't back up for the Michelin Dog, you know…"

There was a familiar _flap-flap_ sound.

"Hello, Dean."

"Gah!" Dean shrank back to one end of the sofa, having come perilously close to ending up in a clinch with Castiel. "Fuck, Cas, how many times do I have to say it? Personal space! I'm gonna write it on a post-it note and glue it to your face!"

"My apologies." He gave Dean a confused look. "Why would you wish to fasten a small piece of self-adherent paper to my face with a liquid adhesive? That would be redundant. Although the natural sebaceous secretions of my vessel's skin might render the adhesive strip of a post-it note ineffective…"

"Er, right," Dean gave the angel a look that was, strangely enough, similar to the expressions Jimi had been using on him for the last two days. "So…"

" Yet gluing it to my face would be impractical, as the movement of facial muscles and skin would in all likelihood disrupt the juxtaposition before the glue could cure… " Castiel seemed to be considering the ramifications of Dean's course of action as he spoke.

"Right, so, Cas…"

"…In any case, I would not be able to see what was written on it," Castiel went on, "As it would be on my face, and inaccessible to my line of sight. In fact, if you were careless in positioning the post-it note, it might cover one of my eyes, and actually physically partially obscure my vision…"

"Cas…"

"…Even were I to stand in front of a mirror, I would experience a minor difficulty in reading what was written on the post-it, because I would be seeing it in reverse…"

"Cas…"

" Although having had this conversation, merely seeing it would remind me of what you had written there, so the presence of the post-it alone would act as a memory aid…" the angel seemed to come to a conclusion. "So, there is not actually any need to write on the post-it note."

"Succinct as ever, Feathers," muttered Bobby.

"Er, good, good, I'll remember that, then," said Dean. "Of course, after that lecture, I've forgotten why I was going to stick a post-it on you in the first place…"

"It's good to see you, Cas, thanks for coming," Sam cut in.

"Hello, Sam," the angel greeted him. "I received your prayer about Dean's apparent… problem. I came as quickly as I could."

Dean glared at Sam. "You sent Cas a p-mail?" he asked suspiciously

"He did. Danael in Reception praised his efforts, although she did make some minor corrections." He waved his hand and called forth a piece of parchment, which had Sam's message to Castiel printed on it. "She wished me to inform you that the phrase 'he's eating weird' was incorrect in two ways: firstly, it could suggest that Dean was, in fact, consuming a substance called weird, which is incorrect, as 'weird' is not a noun in standard English, and secondly, the word should be 'weirdly', the adverb, rather than 'weird', which is an adjective."

He handed the page to Sam. There was red ink on it, correcting his use of 'weird', circling the word 'bitch', and the 'bun' reference was underlined, with the comment 'how is baking relevant to this problem?' penned beside it. At the bottom of the page was written in ornate script: 'A good effort, Samuel. B+'. Sam was slightly miffed – he hadn't received a mark as low as B+ for a long time.

"That's interesting," grunted Bobby, looking at the page, "Angel handwriting had serifs. Who knew?"

"Your message indicated that Dean was showing symptoms consistent with pregnancy," Castiel was scrutinising Dean again. "What can you tell me about your encounter with the witch?"

Sam filled in the details of their previous week and his own suspicions, and Bobby updated him on what their research had turned up, "Which happens to be a whole lot o' nothing, on account of Mr Maternity here being more concerned with pissing the witch off than maybe undoing anything she might try…"

"So, can you tell us, Cas," asked Sam directly, "Is Dean, somehow, pregnant?"

Castiel cocked his head, and studied Dean closely.

"Oh, no," said Dean, "This isn't going to involve shoving your hand into my guts up to the elbow to see if you can feel anything baby-shaped, is it? Because if it is…"

"There is no need for that, I have finished my examination of you." Castiel straightened up.

"Well?" demanded Dean, "Am I… you know?"

"The answer to that," Castiel answered carefully, "Is somewhere between 'Yes' and 'No'."

There was a silence. Possibly even a pregnant silence.

"Er, so, what exactly does that mean?" pressed Bobby. "What did that witch do?"

"I believe you are correct," the angel told Sam. "She did try to put a curse on Dean. I believe she tried a Transformation on him."

"What did she try to turn him into then?" asked Sam. "Because if she was aiming for unbalanced whining emotionally volatile fussy eater, she was extremely successful."

"I suspect that she attempted to turn Dean into a pregnant woman," explained the angel. "However, you were clearly able to kill her before the spell was completed. It was only partially effective."

Dean's eyes bugged in horror. "How effective?" he asked.

"You are still very much male, and have not conceived," Castiel told him.

"You sure?" Dean replied, "Because this morning, when I got dressed, I thought…" he seemed to realise what he was saying, and petered out to embarrassed silence.

"What is it, bro?" Sam pressed.

"I, er, I thought my pants felt a bit, well, tight," mumbled Dean, flushing to his ears. He suddenly looked panicky. "Oh God," he moaned desperately, "I'm going to be the father _and_ mother of my own child, aren't I? A freaky, witchy, unnatural, clone Mini-me! My own little Boba Fett! Sam's going to be an uncle twice over. Or will he be an aunty and an uncle? Or will we have to wait and see what sex the kid is before we know if he's an aunty or an uncle? It's going to be like 'Aliens', isn't it? I'm John Hurt, and… those people on fansites who write mpreg stories will all squee themselves to death! It's happening, Sam! It's actually happening! Oh God, it's going to shred my intestines and claw its way out of me!" He appeared to be on the verge of tears again. "No, wait, what if… OhGodohGodohGod, what if it's… what if it's literally an assbaby? What if that's how it wants to get out? _I'm going to die screaming in agonising pain and embarrassment bringing forth the world's only actual assbabeeeeeeeeee!" _He started to sob.

"Dean, listen to me," instructed Castiel seriously. "The witch's spell did not go to completion. You are still very much a male. You are not technically pregnant. There is no infant inside you. Without extreme medical intervention, no man could even attempt to carry a pregnancy. The witch would have had to change you into a woman for that to happen, then cause you to become pregnant. You cannot have a baby, Dean, and you are not going to have a baby."

Dean's breath hitched into silence as Castiel fixed him with a stern expression. "Despite some of the more… wildly imaginative writings of a certain subset of people who frequent internet sites devoted to original stories based on Chuck's 'Supernatural' books, it is not possible for you, as a man, to fall pregnant, and have a child." He put on his most authoritative Angel Of The Lord I Bring You The Word Of Truth expression. "There are no such things as assbabies, Dean," he said firmly.

"Wait, wait," Sam backtracked, "You said he's 'not technically pregnant'. So… what exactly is wrong with him?"

"Dean is… existentially pregnant," answered Castiel eventually.

"Existen… what the hell does that mean?" asked Bobby, bewildered.

"It means that Dean is experiencing pregnancy, without any real effects," Castiel tried to explain. "It is part of the intent of the witch's curse. Dean is experiencing all the symptoms, feelings and consequences of pregnancy, without actually being pregnant." He eyed Dean again. "Any actual physical changes will be minor. You may genuinely feel that your pants are too tight, but in fact you are not physically any larger than you were before the witch attempted her curse."

"Are you saying it's all in his head?" Bobby queried.

"No, it is all in his… existence," replied the angel.

"Gee, that really clears things up," muttered Sam.

"Your brother's physical and emotional distress is real, Sam," Castiel told him. "His morning sickness was real, as are his unusual cravings, and emotional volatility. He has also been experiencing genuine fatigue, and frequent urinary urgency. In fact, right now, his legs are aching, and he is trying quite hard to refrain from…"

_pppffff **ththththth** rrrrrrrp_

"I'll just open a window, then," sighed Bobby in a resigned tone.

Dean looked shell-shocked. "Are you telling me," he said slowly, "That I'm going to feel like shit for the next nine months?"

"I do not believe that is the case," Castiel said. "Your morning sickness has abated, which in a normal pregnancy usually occurs at the thirteenth or fourteenth week of gestation. Your experience will not last nine months. I estimate that it should take no more than two, possibly three weeks on total."

"Oh, goody, I've invented the turbo-pregnancy. Fast-tracked, for those over-achieving high-powered professionals who can't take the whole nine months out of their busy careers to be reduced to a wallowing, bloated blob of parasitised parenthood for three-quarters of the financial year," Dean intoned miserably.

"No, bro, it's okay, isn't it, Cas?" Sam asked hopefully. "You know what's wrong, so, you can fix him, heal him, right?"

"Pregnancy is not an injury or a disease, Sam," Castiel said, "It cannot be healed, because it is a natural physiological condition, and nothing actually 'wrong'."

"But… he's a guy!" Sam burst out, "You said it yourself, he's a man! He can't be pregnant!"

"Physically, no," Castiel agreed, "Nonetheless, Dean is going to experience it. I am sorry I cannot undo this," he added, sounding genuinely regretful.

Dean dropped his head into his hands. "That's okay," he humphed glumly, "At least I know what I'm up against."

"I have heard it described as a profound experience, bordering on miraculous, even spiritual," related the angel.

"And I've heard it described as trying to snort a turkey out your nose, or shit a bowling ball," grumped Dean.

"There will, no doubt, be some physical and most likely emotional discomfort," agreed Castiel, "Which is where your support people come in."

"Support people?" chorused Sam and Bobby.

"It is traditional for pregnant women to rely on the support of family and close friends during this time," Castiel told them seriously. "I will, of course, stay and assist in any way I can," he assured Dean, "And you have told me before, you consider me a close friend, if not family."

"Yeah," agreed Dean, "Yeah, I guess I have."

"Um, Cas," began Sam, "We're um, guys. We don't know anything about, you know, pregnant people."

"All you have to do is be there for your brother whenever he needs you," smiled Castiel. "You do not have to worry, Dean," he patted Dean's hand gently, "Sam and I will be your support people."

"We will?" gawped Sam.

"Yes, Sam, we will." Castiel smiled the gentle smile of a guardian angel watching over his charge. "As of this moment, we are now officially Dean's doulas."

Dean let out a groan. "I think I want to throw up again."

* * *

><p>Reviews are the Doulas in the Birthing Suite of Fanfiction!<p> 


	6. Chapter 6

My word, we do have some mpreg fans in here, don't we? All had your little hearts set on an honest-to-Cas assbaby. Sorry, Denizens et al., in the Jimiverse, there are no such things as assbabies - they just creep me out. Hence my utter disbelief that this plot bunny chose me to bite. Will you feel better if I give the non-existent assbaby a name?

Kepouros, _of course_ Dean is horny. He's Dean, and he's pregnant. It goes without saying.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 6<strong>

"So, found our next job, Sam?" asked Dean, wandering into the kitchen.

"What?" Sam turned from the sandwich he was making to stare at Dean. "You gotta be kidding me, we're… are you wearing one of my shirts?"

"Um, yeah," answered Dean, a trifle defensively. "It's comfortable, okay?" he went on when Sam kept staring at him. "Most of mine feel a bit… tight."

"Fine, fine," scowled Sam, telling himself that this would only last for another ten days at the most, "Help yourself to my shirts. Just… don't get anything on them."

"The throwing up stopped days ago, Sammy," grinned Dean, biting into a tomato, "And I'm getting better with the tomatoes. See? No pips!"

"I'm not talking about puke," snapped Sam. "You're worse than a rabbit! You're worse than a goat! Right now, you're worse than Dean Winchester!"

"This is a perfectly normal aspect of the second trimester of a pregnancy," said Cas in his most reasonable tone from where he perched on a kitchen chair. "Many women experience increased libido and facilitated arousal and enjoyment of sexual activity. It is related to hormonal changes."

"It may be normal, but that doesn't mean I have to like it," Sam griped, "I mean, we've been living practically in each other's pockets our whole lives, we're both guys, you kind of, you know, accommodate… stuff… but…" his voice trailed off. "Four times yesterday," he complained, "And he usually has the decency to keep his voice down…"

"You should try not to be concerned," the angel tried to reassure Sam, "It will not do Dean any harm, and I am sure that you can both continue to observe the conventions you have developed to allow each other privacy when living in close quarters. Your shirts are not threatened; Dean prefers to masturbate in the shower, because it is easy to clean up, and he enjoys the sensation of the water running over his…"

"Cas!" yelped Sam, "Too! Much! Information!"

Dean smirked at his brother's discomfiture. "Never mind, bro, we'll just glue another post-it note to his face. You're just jealous. Once we get on the road, I can go looking for female company, Sammy, leave you and your delicate sensibilities in peace."

"Are you hungry, Dean?" asked Cas solicitously. "Should I prepare you some food?"

"Yeah, that would be great, Doula Cas," Dean said, sinking into a chair. "Is there any coffee?"

"It would be prudent to avoid caffeine while you are experiencing pregnancy," announced Castiel as he chopped tomatoes and spooned out yoghurt. "It is a stimulant, and may have a detrimental effect on the developing foetus."

"Yeah, but I don't actually have one of those, do I?" reasoned Dean. "No actual assbaby. So, I can have coffee!"

"You may not be physically pregnant," warned Cas, mixing his ingredients together in a bowl, "But it would be wise to avoid anything that could cause any sort of complications. You may have no assbaby per se, but you may suffer the consequences of anything that would have adverse effects on the non-existent assbaby." He put the bowl of tomato and yoghurt in front of Dean.

"Great," groused Dean, tucking into his lunch, "It doesn't even exist, and it's making my life miserable."

"There are a number of other foodstuffs you should avoid," Cas went on, warming to his theme, "Soft cheeses, for example, raw meat or fermented meat products, raw eggs…"

"Hey, I can definitely live without raw eggs," Dean screwed his face up.

"…which precludes mayonnaise, hollandaise and cookie dough, large fish which may contain high levels of mercury – you will have noticed that I have been monitoring your intake of tuna – ham, and other manufactured or smoked meat, for example hot dogs, pate, shellfish, processed snack foods, soft-serve ice-cream and thickshakes. And, of course, alcohol."

Dean's head snapped up. "Alcohol?" he echoed. "Alcohol? You expect me to get through this without alcohol? First you say 'no coffee', then you say 'no mayonnaise, no salami, no pastrami, no thickshakes, no hotdogs, no Doritos, no cookie dough ice-cream' and on top of that, you say, 'no alcohol'?" He looked shocked. "This is going to kill me, Cas."

"That is not true, Dean. Nobody has ever died from abstaining from alcoholic beverages," Cas told him in a slightly disapproving voice.

"Huh. Well, that rule will go out the window the minute we're on our next job," Dean scowled. "So, Sammy, where are we headed?"

"Nowhere," Sam told him with an authoritative finality. "We are staying right here until you, um, do whatever it is that an existentially pregnant man is supposed to do with a full-term non-existent assbaby."

"Fred."

"Huh?"

"My non-existent assbaby. I've named him Fred."

"_What?"_

"You don't like Fred?" Dean looked thoughtful. "As the non-uncle, or maybe non-aunty, I'm prepared to entertain suggestions from you as to what this non-existent assbaby should be called. But I like Fred. It's short, it's simple, it's easy to spell."

"Dean," asked Sam incredulously, "Dean, why the hell do you feel the need to name an assbaby that doesn't even exist? It's not just your assbaby that isn't real. Assbabies in general aren't real! They do not exist!"

"I needed something to swear at, okay?" Dean groused. "When it feels like I'm being poked in the kidneys, or kicked in the liver, it's really uncomfortable, and…" he broke off, hiccuped, then let out a long belch. "Ow! Hey, Fred! Knock it off!" he addressed his midriff severely, giving it a light slap. "I'm trying to eat here!"

Sam dropped his head into his hands. "Just when I don't think it can get any weirder," he sighed.

"This is not at all weird, Sam," Castiel told him, "In most cultures, women talk to their children before they are born, and many encourage the fathers to do the same."

"You can talk to him if you like," Dean offered generously, "Being my doula and all."

"Dean, I am not talking to your imaginary assbaby!" snapped Sam. "It's.. it's… irrational!"

"Sam, as Dean's doulas, it is our duty to support him in any way he needs us through his pregnancy," Castiel chided, "And if what he needs seems in some ways irrational, try to remember that he is being subjected to massive hormonal fluctuations right now. It is not within his control." He turned to Dean. "Dean, may I speak to Fred?"

With a glare at Sam, Dean replied, "Yeah, sure, Cas."

Castiel cleared his throat, and fixed Dean's middle with one of his eye-sex stares. "I am addressing Fred the non-existent assbaby," he intoned. "My name is Castiel. I am an Angel of The Lord, a Warrior of Heaven. I am a friend of Dean's, and will be acting as his doula during his existential pregnancy. Just because you don't actually exist, doesn't mean that you are not having an effect on him. He is already experiencing a number of unfortunate symptoms, including a certain amount of gastrointestinal distress…"

"Not nearly as distressing for him as us poor bastards who have to smell it," sniped Sam.

"… And while I realise that you have a limited capacity to act in this situation, as you are in fact not real, I think he would really appreciate it if you could try to be less… disruptive in your effects upon his viscera, especially when he is trying to eat."

Dean paused. "Hey," he smiled, "Fred's quietened down. I think he heard you, Cas." He dug into his lunch with renewed vigour.

"Thank you, Fred," finished Castiel. "I am sure that we will all appreciate your consideration in this matter."

"Insanity is clearly an infectious disease," decided Sam. "I just can't decide which of you gave it to the other one."

"We both caught it from you, Francis. Now, tell me about our next job," Dean demanded through a mouthful of tomato and yoghurt.

"We are not going anywhere," reiterated Sam, "We are going to stay right here until this thing…"

"Fred," corrected Dean.

"All right, until Fred his been… dealt with."

"Why?" Dean wanted to know. "You heard what Cas said, pregnancy is a normal physiological condition, not a disease or an injury. Women stay at work until they're just a couple of weeks away from popping, right? So, Fred won't get in the way. We got people to save, Sam!"

"Think about saving yourself first, Dean," Sam ground out. "If I am cooped up in the car or a motel room with you and your 'gastrointestinal distress' and conversations with Fred the non-existent assbaby, I will not be held responsible for my own actions. These may consist of stuffing you in a sack and locking you in a closet, or sitting on you and slapping you, or anything in between. In any case, having to stop every thirty minutes for you to pee, jerk off, nap or all three would put a serious cramp in our style. Anyway, I'm pretty sure pregnant… people aren't supposed to dig up graves, or get thrown around by spirits or poltergeists."

"Sam's concerns are legitimate," confirmed Castiel, "Any activity that carries a risk of falling, strenuous exercise, lifting heavy items and contact sports should be avoided during pregnancy. Also, travelling long distances sitting in the car may put you at risk of blood pressure problems, or deep vein thrombosis."

Dean looked deflated. "So, I get to sit on the sofa, with no snacks, and watch something on the history channel that isn't overly stimulating?"

"That would be an acceptable activity," nodded Castiel approvingly. "Remember to elevate your legs."

"Are you sure I can't have some coffee?" Dean asked wistfully, "Just a cup? Fred won't mind, he doesn't even exist, do you, Fred?"

Castiel considered the request. "A single cup of coffee should pose no threat. Go sit down, Dean. Sam and I will prepare a cup of coffee for you."

"We will?" Sam looked up.

"Thank you, my wonderful doulas," grinned Dean, heading for the living room.

His grin disappeared later when his smiling brother presented him with a steaming mug. Sam only just made it back through the doorway before the cushion thwacked into the wall, and an irate yell echoed through the house.

"AAAAAARGH! Cas, you assbutt! This is decaf!"

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

"Where are you going?" asked Sam, when Dean appeared that night wearing his own clothes, and a smirk.

"Out, Sammy, I'm going out," he grinned. "While the Nanny Angel is off attending to his Heavenly board meetings, or pep rallies, or whatever it is that he does to keep the Heavenly Host in line, I'm going out."

"Is that a good idea?" asked his brother doubtfully.

"It's not a good idea, Sam, it's a great idea!" Dean told him cheerfully. "Hey, why don't you come with me? We can find a bar, find some company, you do remember what women look like, don't you?"

Sam looked worried. "Cas said…"

"Cas has been reading too many books," Dean waved a hand dismissively, "And he worries too much. Come on, Sam, you need to get laid. I need to get laid. We both need to get laid. Not with each other, obviously, but we can kill two birds with one stone. You may bask in the aura of the Living Sex God, and perhaps amuse yourself with one of the numerous hot women he inevitably attracts."

"Dean, it might be better not to…"

"It's this, or I go upstairs, put your shirt on and jerk off again," Dean said.

"I so did not need to hear that," grumped Sam. He sighed. "Okay, then, enjoy yourself. Just remember Fred, and be careful, okay?"

"Don't wait up," his big brother grinned, heading for the car.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

He found a bar. There was booze, there was music, there was female company. The Living Sex God was in his element.

Several women flirted with him, and he flirted right back. A blonde with a rack you could rest a beer on, legs that went all the way up and a come-hither smile eventually caught his attention – she matched him beer for beer, then described her hobbies: "Scrapbooking, rock climbing, and sucking golf balls through garden hoses." He loved it when a woman made him laugh as well as making him horny.

They went back to her place. The lights went off. Their clothes came off.

The Living Sex God did his thang with a willing and enthusiastic acolyte.

She complimented him on his technique and stamina. He complimented her on her imagination and enthusiasm. She saw him wince, and asked if he was all right. Just a small twinge in his back, he assured her, nothing at all. I have some massage oil, she suggested, which might help, and who knows, it might just segue into Round Two…

It did.

I'll feel guilty if I think I've injured you, she smiled afterwards, when his back twinged again. It's nothing, he repeated, stretching and yawning, and will be no impediment at all, should you find yourself interested in Round Three later…

"You should not use that massage oil again," said a gravelly voice from the shadows, "It contains cedarwood and clove oil, and should be avoided by someone with your… condition."

It was difficult to say who screamed louder, the enthusiastic acolyte or the Living Sex God.

She scrabbled for a light switch. "Who the fuck are you?" she demanded, pulling on a robe.

"I am Castiel, I am Dean's… friend," the serious man with the messy hair, the intense stare and the creepy trench-coat replied. "He currently has a health condition, which he is not adept at managing. When I found him missing from his current place of residence, I immediately came to look for him, to ascertain his well-being."

"Cas, what the fuck are you doing here?" screeched Dean in mortified disbelief.

"I could ask you the same thing, Dean," Cas frowned reprovingly. "You have consumed alcohol and processed snack foods, and engaged in sexual intercourse in positions that are not appropriate for someone in your… state."

"Who is he?" demanded the young lady, bristling with mortification and anger. "What the fuck is he doing here? What the hell are you talking about?"

"The discomfort in his back is due to the loosening of ligaments under the action of hormonal influence, putting extra strain and pressure on certain muscle groups and skeletal structures," Creepy Trench-Coat Intruder went on matter-of-factly. "There is no reason to avoid intercourse, however, it would be prudent to avoid certain positions, such as those with the man superior to the woman…"

"Caaaaaas!" Dean's eyes bugged in horror.

"… And your… performance in the living room, carrying all her weight like that, was most unwise…"

"What are you doing in my apartment? ! " yelled the thoroughly wierded out acolyte at Creepy Trench-Coat Intruder. "Get out!"

"I will, of course," the Creepy Trench-Coat Intruder assured her, "However, to assist Dean in looking after his own well-being, I have prepared this. It documents positions that will be suitable for him to employ while he is… suffering from this condition."

Castiel waved a hand, and called forth a book, which he handed to Dean, who took it with a slightly dazed expression.

It was a copy of _The Joy Of Sex._

It had lots of little flag tag bookmarks in it.

"Some of them have illustrations as well as written descriptions," Castiel pointed out helpfully.

"Gnaaaaaarg," went Dean.

"I have also made some extra notes in the margins, where I think they may be helpful," the angel added.

"Gnaaaaaarg," went Dean.

"Very well." Castiel nodded politely to the woman, who was glaring daggers at him. "I will, of course, leave now," he told them. "While I do not condone Dean's habit of rampant casual fornication, he is an adult, and is entitled to make his own decisions concerning his private life. Good bye. Enjoy your evening."

The Creepy Trench-Coat Intruder backed into the shadows, and left in a_ flap-flap_ of creepy trench-coat.

"Get out," the now extremely angry woman barked at Dean, "And next time you want to invite a friend along, ask first, you perv!"

Dean made to protest, but didn't bother. What was he supposed to say? "Please don't be angry. He's an Angel Of The Lord, he's totally socially inept, and he's just worried about me, because he's a birth attendant for the impending arrival of my non-existent assbaby"?

"I'm really, really sorry about him," he apologised sheepishly as he pulled his clothes on. "He's got Doingo Syndrome, totally clueless… um, do you want to keep this?"

The book hit him in the head when he was halfway back to his car.

He sighed as he started the engine. It was crappy Winchester luck, he thought. Only a Winchester could get cockblocked by an angel.

* * *

><p>Sheldon!Cas, Rational!Sam and Hormonal!Dean, all at Longsuffering!Bobby's place. It's a recipe for fun, isn't it?<p>

Reviews are the Bookmarks in the Instructional Book Of Life!


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

"Mornin', Sleeping Beauty," Bobby greeted Sam genially when he made his way into the kitchen.

Sam dropped into a chair. "Nope, right now, I'd rather be the Wicked Fairy. Send everybody in the house to sleep for a hundred years," he yawned. "Give me coffee, or give me death. In fact, give me coffee, then give me death."

"Another rough night?" Bobby enquired politely, reaching for the coffee pot.

"Technically, a rough morning," corrected Sam. "At two a.m. it was 'Fred wants onion rings, RIGHT NOW.' Yesterday, it was 'Fred won't stock kicking my pancreas until I get strawberry ice-cream.' Night before that, it was 'Grapes, Sam! I gotta eat grapes! Get grapes! Graaaaaaapes! And ketchup!'. He wouldn't shut up. Graaaaaapes, graaaaaaaaapes. It was like being pestered by a world's most annoying vegetarian zombie. Graaaaaaaaaaapes…"

"I did offer to leave and fetch the items Dean was craving," Castiel pointed out.

"Yeah, but that would've left me on foot massage duty," complained Sam.

"Aching, swollen extremities are a very common and extremely uncomfortable symptom in human pregnancy," said the angel. "Internal pressure on the inferior vena cava compromises blood return from the lower limbs, which disrupts the Stokes forces in the tissues of the legs and feet, causing fluid to…"

"You seem to know a hell of a lot about pregnant… people," observed Bobby.

"When I became Dean's doula, I took steps to inform myself about the nature of his condition," the angel told them, "So that I would be in the best possible position to support him. I read books on maternity, pregnancy and childbirth."

"Yeah?" queried Sam. "How many?"

"All of them," answered Castiel.

"Oh." Sam and Bobby didn't doubt it.

"Of course, I rejected the instructions in many books as outdated or inappropriate," the angel went on. "For example, the sixteenth century European practice of confining a pregnant woman to an overheated, darkened room prior to delivery is clearly no longer considered necessary, and since Dean will not actually be giving birth, there is probably no benefit in undertaking perianal massage…"

Sam sprayed a mouthful of coffee into his oatmeal. Bobby patted him on the back until he stopped coughing.

"I am somewhat surprised that you have not taken similar steps to inform yourself about the physiological changes your brother is going through, Sam," continued Castiel, with a slightly disappointed tone in his voice, "Given that you are also his doula."

"Yeah, well, considering that I'm pretty sure I'd pass out if I ever heard the words Dean and… and that kind of massage in the same sentence again – oh God, I'm feeling dizzy just saying that – I think that as his brother, my role is probably more in the, you know, brotherly support side," Sam said. "You know, like fetching onion rings at two in the morning."

"Certainly, that sort of support is important during pregnancy," nodded Castiel, "The pregnant person's mental well-being is as important as physical health."

"Speak of the devil," said Bobby, as Dean made his way carefully down the stairs and shuffled into the kitchen, Jimi sticking close to him.

"Nnnnng," he mumbled, stretching and rubbing at his back.

"You and me both," griped Sam, yawning into his breakfast, "You were like the world's biggest Mexican jumping bean last night – twitching, moaning, tossing and turning – what the hell were you dreaming about, taking lambada lessons?"

"I can't get comfortable," complained Dean, "Whatever I do, I feel like I have an elephant sitting on me."

"And as for 'gastrointestinal distress', what with the burping and, er, polluting, you are contributing to global warming more than the average herd of cattle. Even Jimi gave up and left the room. The noise alone would wake a coma patient."

"It's Fred," sighed Dean, sitting down heavily, "He keeps kicking me in the stomach. Little bastard's a soccer player."

"Not to mention the bathroom breaks, every half hour, on the half hour."

"Oh, why did you have to mention that? Ow!" Dean gasped, and addressed his midriff angrily. "Hey, Fred, it's a bladder, not a trampoline! Damn." He got up awkwardly, and headed for the bathroom.

"Disrupted sleep is normal during the last months of a gestation," said Castiel. "The pregnancy takes up more and more room in the abdominal cavity, compressing the viscera. Movements may also be uncomfortable."

"How does that work? He doesn't look any different to what he did two weeks ago!" Sam found the whole thing completely confusing.

"Nonetheless, Fred the non-existent assbaby is exerting real effects on your brother – his internal organs genuinely feels as if they are being compressed," Castiel reminded him.

"And my bladder genuinely feels like he's jumping up and down on it," grumped Dean, returning to the kitchen.

Sam watched him curiously. "Dude," he asked hesitantly, "Are you... waddling?"

Dean scowled. "I feel... unbalanced," he said unhappily, "And everything aches." He poked listlessly at his tomato yoghurt, managing a couple of mouthfuls.

"Are you feeling unwell, Dean?" asked Castiel with concern as Dean pushed the plate away.

"No, I just can't fit much in," he moped, "I think Fred is not leaving much space for my stomach. I might be able to manage a cheeseburger," he added hopefully.

"A cheeseburger is not a suitable foodstuff for a pregnant person," Castiel reminded him, "Indeed, a certain school of thought would suggest that a cheeseburger is not a suitable foodstuff for anybody. You should avoid cheese, and hamburger mince is a likely source of bacterial contamination if not adequately cooked. In addition, the lettuce leaves may be contaminated with _Listeria monocytogenes_ – removal of this bacterium requires thorough washing of salad leaves, which may not always be adequately undertaken in a fast food establishment, and while of little consequence in an otherwise healthy adult, Listeriosis can have dire consequences during a pregnancy..."

"Okay, sorry I asked," humphed Dean, eating another forkful of tomato yoghurt.

Bobby peered at Dean. "Son, is that a pair of my sweatpants you're wearing?" he asked curiously.

Dean blushed. "They're comfortable," he mumbled, "My pants all feel too tight."

"And that's another one of my t-shirts," accused Sam. "That plaid's mine, too."

"Well, none of my stuff fits me anymore!" Dean burst out. "I can't help it if I'm turning into a, a, a blimp!"

"What the...?" Sam looked bemused as Dean pushed his chair back and stomped out.

"Misgivings about body image are common in pregnant women," Castiel noted, "Given the usual changes in body shape, and the hormonal upheavals, it is not surprising."

Sam looked bewildered. "But he doesn't look any different!" he pointed out. "Fred is a _non-existent_ assbaby!"

"Fred may not exist physically, but your brother genuinely feels physically awkward and unattractive," Castiel explained.

"Oh, this is ridiculous," scowled Sam, feeling tired and cranky, "It's bad enough he has to keep me awake with his nocturnal twitchings and strange cravings, now he feels fat and unlovely?" He went after his brother.

He found Dean sitting on the bench seat on the porch, Jimi curled next to him, head in his Alpha's lap.

"Dean," he began, "You are being irrational, unreasonable, and totally insane about this," he began.

"You said I was waddling," Dean said in a small voice.

"You're over-reacting, and bordering on… what?" Sam's brain performed a handbrake turn, and tried to catch up.

"You said I was waddling," Dean repeated miserably. He looked up at Sam, his eyes shimmering with unshed tears. "And you're right. I waddle when I walk. I waddle, and wallow, because I'm this bloated, grotesque, thing."

"What?" said Sam again. "Dean, will you listen to yourself? This is crazy!"

"You're right," agreed Dean, voice hitching, "I am going crazy. I feel weird. I feel gross. I can't sleep, I can't get comfortable, and everything hurts, and I'm disgusting…" he sniffed.

Jimi nudged his head under Dean's hand, and gave a reassuring whuff. The expression the dog shot at Sam was brutally clear. _Why don't you go back inside and leave this to a professional?_

"…And I'm being kicked from the inside by a non-existent assbaby, and I can't even get drunk or eat cheeseburgaaaAAARGH!" Dean yelped, and clutched his stomach. "Frederick Samuel Winchester, you cut that out right now! Daddy's had enough!" his voice broke on the last word, and he sniffed again.

Sam sat down next to his brother. "Did you… you named your non-existent assbaby after me?" he asked after a moment.

"Of course I did," replied Dean, "This is my first not-born, non-existent assbaby. Of course I'm going to give it your name. You're my brother." A single tear made its way down his cheek. "I'll change it, if you want. I know you think I'm being ridiculous."

Sam made a decision.

"Yes, you are being totally ridiculous," he confirmed. "I don't believe I'm sitting here, listening to the Living Sex God tell me he thinks he's disgusting. Are you nuts?" Dean looked at him. "Dean, you might feel disgusting and gross, but on the outside, you don't look any different. Don't you think that if you did look bloated, or in the least bit revolting, I'd be the first to point it out, and bitch about it?"

"Damned right you would," sniffled Dean, "You'd make smartass comments, and take pictures, and threaten to send them to Bobby."

"Exactly. Believe me, bro, you are definitely still the awesome, devastatingly attractive individual you have always been. Didn't you just go out and have women falling over you a few days ago? Didn't you get laid? I'll bet she complimented you. They always do."

"Yeah, she did," Dean gave Sam a small smile.

"In fact," Sam went on, warming to his theme, "I think Fred might be making you even more attractive to women, if such a thing is even possible for the Living Sex God."

"Really?" Dean wiped his nose on his sleeve.

"Yeah, really. It's done wonderful things for your skin, and your hair, and your general… ambiance. It must be pheromones, or something. It sends out these subliminal signals that you're a healthy, virile specimen, and they react biologically to that, even before they notice how totally hot you are. And, of course, it makes you even more capable than ever of, er, satisfying a lady, more than once if necessary…"

"If such a thing is even possible for the Living Sex God," commented Dean.

"Yeah, totally, if such a thing is even possible, so, you see, you are being ridiculous. You're totally hot, bro. Still. Awesome as ever. Not at all disgusting."

"Thanks, Sam," said Dean, burying his sniffling face in Sam's shirt. Sam put an arm around him.

"Any time, dude," he replied.

"We're totally not hugging," Dean specified, resting his head on Sam's shoulder.

"Definitely not," agreed Sam, "This is just some manly, brotherly reassurance."

Jimi grinned up at Sam with a happy face. _About time you got with the program._

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

Sam was searching the net for information about aromatherapy oils safe for use in pregnancy when he wandered into the living room to find Dean lying on the sofa, moaning in pain, while Castiel gazed at him in a concerned fashion.

The first thing that Sam thought was, 'Dean! What is it?'

The second thing that Sam thought was, 'Is something wrong, or is this a normal symptom?'

The third thing that Sam thought was, 'Why is my brother lying shirtless with cabbage leaves all over his chest?'

"Dean! Cas, what happened?" he asked anxiously.

"Chest pain and tenderness are common in pregnancy," explained Castiel, "As a woman's breasts enlarge, they become uncomfortable. I have administered a safe analgesic, but it does not seem to be working."

"Why the, er," Sam indicated the cabbage leaves adorning his brother.

"Chilled cabbage leaves are a home remedy recommended by many women," Castiel told him, "However, it does not seem to be working on Dean."

"It huuuuuuuurts, Sammy," moaned Dean. "Every time I try to move, it hurts." Jimi whuffed reassuringly, licking at his Alpha's hand.

"Why isn't the cabbage working?" Sam wanted to know.

Castiel looked thoughtful. "I believe the problem may be… structural. There may, in fact, be a solution that will offer Dean relief from this symptom." He produced a piece of paper, and explained what was required.

The fact that Dean didn't utter a word of protest spoke volumes about how bad he was feeling. Given that, Sam closed his mouth from where his jaw had fallen open as Castiel spoke, and set out on his errand.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

It was not creepy in a 'something supernatural is lurking here, ready to kill you' way. It was creepy in a 'you are not supposed to be here, you alien intruder' kind of way. That, Sam decided, was much creepier. He looked around, utterly perplexed. He had no idea where to even start…

"Can I help you?" asked a pleasant, reassuring voice from about waist height. He looked down. He was being addressed by an older lady, in a twin set and sensible shoes. She wore glasses on a lanyard, and had a tape measure draped around her neck. She radiated a calm sense of maternal authority – her posture, her voice and her expression all said 'I know what I am doing, you do not need to worry at all, I will sort everything out for you.'

He felt himself sag with relief.

"Um, I hope so," he said, almost shyly, proffering the piece of paper Castiel had given him. "My… wife, she's in a lot of discomfort, and she's not well, so, she, um, gave me some measurements, and sent me to get, er…"

"First one?" the keen eyes twinkled behind the glasses.

"Yeah, it's quite a shock to the system," he smiled sheepishly.

The lady – her name was probably Muriel, he decided, or possibly Mavis – took the paper, and almost raised an eyebrow. "My word, your wife is a big, healthy girl, isn't she?" she said conversationally.

"Weightlifter," Sam told her, with a slightly desperate smile, "Competed internationally. Before, um, obviously not now. Er."

"It would be better if she could come in," Muriel said, "But I'm sure we can find something suitable," she went on with a reassuring smile, "And you can always return it. Now," she frowned thoughtfully, turning to a wall hanging with items that put Sam in mind of armour, "Comfortable, and maybe something a little bit…" she plucked one from a rack. "What do you think?"

"Wow," Sam was amazed. It was black, it was satiny, it was… "I had no idea that they made these so… slinky." He smiled. "I think she'll like that one."

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

"…And Muriel picked out this one," Sam pulled the black item from the bag, "Because she said that when you're pregnant, you can use all the little boosts to your self-confidence you can get."

"Would you like to try this, Dean?" asked Castiel.

"I'll try cutting my own head off, if it will make this stop," wailed Dean.

"Maybe try this first, then, bro," Sam offered the bag to Dean, "Admittedly, a desperate measure, but not as desperate as self-decapitation."

Dean insisted that he wanted privacy, and did not need any assistance. Sam could understand that. He was still amazed that Dean hadn't upped and murdered the angel with his bare hands when Castiel made the suggestion.

When Dean emerged ten minutes later, looking a lot happier, Sam decided that there was no end to the weird this particular curse could engender.

On the one hand, he should've been rolling on the floor laughing so hard he couldn't breathe. On the other hand, he was just glad that his brother was no longer in such pain.

On the other other hand, part of his brain was jumping up and down, screaming shrilly _'How the FUCK does that even WORK? It's not like he's actually got anything to put in it…'_

One thing he did know for sure – teasing Dean Winchester about wearing a maternity bra would mean instant death.

* * *

><p>Why is it that the fitting ladies in those shops are always older ladies, no taller than five feet, with glasses on a lanyard, and you just know that they're somebody's Aunty Muriel?<p> 


	8. Chapter 8

There is not really any fanart potential for Dean in a maternity foundation garment, since he is wearing two of Sam's shirts over it, and, as his brother correctly observed, has nothing to put in it anyway, so there's nothing to see. I'm kinda hoping that one day somebody will draw Jimi, maybe with Oinker Stoinker, or sitting in the bath with Dean.

This story probably takes place a bit before 'Teething Trouble'. As to how I know what an assbaby is when I'm not much of an mpreg fan, it was one of those ghastly moments when you follow a link, and have no idea about the horror of what you're about to learn. Kind of like when I stumbled across 'donkey punch' in urbandictionary...

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 8<strong>

"Owwwwwwwwwww," moaned Dean into the sofa. His voice was muffled by the assortment of pillows, cushions, bolsters and folded blankets propped under and around him.

"What bit hurts, Dean?" asked Sam.

"Yes," mumbled his brother.

"One heat pack, express delivery," announced Bobby, tossing a wheat bag to Sam. "And a lovely tisane for the man _dans une certaine condition_," he finished, putting down the cup, "Made exactly according to Sam's detailed specifications." Dean turned his head, and sniffed suspiciously.

"What is it?" he asked, cocking a wary eye at Sam.

"Peppermint and ginger tea," his brother replied, changing the heat pack on Dean's lower back and handing the cooled one back to Bobby. "In moderation, it's safe during pregnancy, and can help settle a squicky stomach. It's got honey in it."

"Hey, that thing doesn't have lavender in it, does it?" Dean narrowed his eyes at the wheat pack, "Lavender is evil. It's the breath of Hades, the stench of Hellhound farts, an abomination unto Creation and an affront in the sight – and smell – of God."

"Dean, I think you must be mistaken," commented Cas, from where he sat at the end of the sofa massaging Dean's feet. "My Father does not have a bad opinion about plants of the genus _Lavandula_. A plant cannot have sentient thoughts, and therefore cannot know or violate a moral code. Since antiquity, it has been used for its medicinal properties, being both antiseptic and anti-inflammatory. It has many culinary uses, and produces a monofloral honey that is particularly prized."

"I'll bet that people who eat lavender honey throw up pea soup, then their heads spin round," grumped Dean, sipping at the tea. "Hmmmm, it's okay," he conceded. "Are you sure there's no lavender in that thing? I can smell lavender."

"I am absolutely sure there is no lavender," confirmed Sam. "I double-checked the label."

"Cas? You're an angel, you can detect evil shit," Dean went on, "Is there lavender in that thing?"

Cas paused, frowning at the heat pack. "No, Dean," he said firmly, "There is absolutely no plant matter derived from lavender in there."

"Your sense of smell has been in overdrive," Sam pointed out, "Maybe you just think you can smell lavender."

"Maybe it was packed next to one that had lavender," suggested Dean. "I think you should exorcise it, just in case."

"Dean, I really don't think…" began Sam, before Dean cut him off.

"Saaaaam, I can smell it, it's making me feel… oogy." Dean looked at him wistfully.

Sam sighed. He felt ridiculous, but the whole doula gig was about making his brother comfortable, so he fixed the wheat pack with a suitable glare. "Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus omnis satanica potestas," he recited obligingly, "Omnis incursio infernalis adversarii…"

When he finished the rite, Dean gasped.

"Wow! Did you see that?" he said, "A great big column of purple smoke just fled screaming back to Hell! The evil lavender is vanquished! My baby brother saved me!" He grinned at Sam.

"I think maybe the sleep deprivation is affecting your brain," decided Sam, "You're even more annoying than usual."

"I'm bored," Dean practically whined. "I feel like a beached whale. I'm too lumpy to sleep, and even if I do manage to nod off, Fred inevitably kicks me in the OW!" he hissed sharply. "See? Stop it, Fred! That's getting oldowowow owowow owowowOW!" Dean's voice rose in a note of panic.

"Dean?" asked Sam anxiously, "Dean! What's happening?"

"Owowowowow owowow it's Fred, he's, he's squeezing me, owowowowowOWWWWW!" Dean's eyes bugged, and he gasped for breath. Then, as suddenly as the spasm had started, it stopped. "Holy crap," he let out a relieved sigh, "That hurt. Hey!" He poked his stomach. "That's not funny Fred, that hurt!" He looked to Castiel. "That's the first time he's done that," he said in a concerned voice.

"I believe you may have just experienced an existential Braxton-Hicks contraction," opined the angel.

"Oh. That's… nice," replied Dean. "I think I had one of those when I was a toddler, but then the wheels fell off…"

"It's like your body doing practice contractions for, er, delivery," said Sam uncertainly.

"Sam is correct," Castiel went on. "This probably means that you are nearing the end of your pregnancy, and your body is existentially preparing to go into labour."

Dean gulped. "Labour?" he almost squeaked. "As in, giving birth, turkey out your nose, gut-wrenching agony, thirty hours of sheer joy type of labour?" He looked horrified. "How is that possible? Why? Fred is a non-existent assbaby! He's not even in there, so he doesn't need to get out! I'm an empty oven, with absolutely no bun in it! OW! Stop kicking, Fred!"

"Nonetheless, pregnancy ends with labour, and birth," Castiel was relentless. "You will presumably have to go through this as well. Perhaps now would be a good time to discuss birth options, and consider a birth plan."

Dean looked lost. "Birth options?" he echoed. "Birth plan? You can plan this stuff? I thought it kind of, just, you know, happened."

"A birth plan is like a list of preferences," Sam elaborated, "It's meant to tell your caregivers what you'd prefer to happen, with regard to things like pain relief, positioning, companions, location, setting, that sort of thing."

In that case, I plan for it to be over in less than three minutes, while I sit in a dark room with my eyes closed, with no companion except my good friend Jack," specified Dean. "If it will make you feel involved, you can sit outside the door and sing a couple of verses of Kumbaya."

"The rationale of a birth plan is that you take time to think about your preferences while you are able to do so in a calm and considered state of mind," Castiel explained, "Because once labour begins, you are likely to be distracted, and your attention will be otherwise occupied. For example, would you prefer a water birth, is there a position you find particularly comfortable – on hands and knees is popular for the onset of labour, and the use of birthing stools is making a resurgence..."

"No," said Dean firmly, "No, absolutely not, I do NOT need a birth plan, because I am NOT planning to give birth. I am NOT going to go through labour, existential or otherwise. Fred is NOT real, I am NOT pregnant and assbabies do NOT exist and men do NOT give birth and I'm the Living Sex God for fuck's sake and I don't want to do this, Sam!"

"It's okay, Dean," Sam assured his brother, "We'll figure something out."

"Don't you worry, son," Bobby added soothingly, "Listen to your brother, we'll work something out." He looked thoughtful. "I know a couple of guys, doctors, who know about my extra-curricular activities, I could…"

"NO!" Dean sounded as panicked as he looked. "I don't want anybody to see me like this!"

"It's okay, Dean," reiterated Sam, "No doctor, if you don't want that."

"I'll be in my study," said Bobby determinedly, "There has to be something we can do."

"I could paint your toenails for you, Dean," suggested Castiel.

Three pairs of eyes blinked owlishly at him.

"It is a ritual that many Northern Americans and Europeans practise as delivery draws near," he elaborated. "It is called 'pampering'. It entails spending some time with your close friends, for the purposes of relaxation and reassurance. Those participating paint each other's nails, and dress each other's hair. There is often massage of the pregnant one involved. Consumption of chocolate is also traditional. Bubble bath is invoked frequently. You would have to take your hat off, Bobby, if one of us is to brush your hair."

"Um, I'm not sure that it's really the sort of thing we need to do here…" stuttered the old Hunter. "In fact, I've suddenly remembered something extremely important that I have to do in one of the sheds..." Bobby fled.

"The sources I consulted all reported that the ritual has a great therapeutic effect, lifting the mood of the pregnant one, alleviating boredom and anxiety, having a powerfully relaxing effect, improving sleep, and providing pain relief," Castiel informed them. "Since Dean is so uncomfortable, and experiencing some distress at the thought of the onset of labour, I thought it might assist. As his doulas, it would be appropriate for us to undertake these activities."

"Cas, Dean does not want his toenails painted," Sam said firmly. "We are supposed to be supporting Dean, not making him more uncomfortable. All that sort of stuff is basically chick-flick-moments incarnate. Dean hates that sort of thing. The Living Sex God does not do Girls' Nights In. Right, Dean?"

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

"I know what you're doing," Sam muttered, "You're only going along with this to make Cas happy, and weird me out."

"Strangely enough, it seems to be working. Fred is quiet," Dean noted, taking another drink of his tea. "I think I'm developing a taste for this stuff," he added.

"Dean is to be commended for his willingness to try something that ordinarily he would not," commented Castiel. He was wearing his Guardian Angel On Duty expression as he ran the comb through Dean's hair. "And it appears to be working. In any case, your attention should be on what is best for Dean, not what you may think of it. This is the correct attitude for a doula."

"That's right, Sam," Dean chimed in, "You're my doula, not my don't-la. Ow!'

"Sorry," apologised Sam, from where he was massaging Dean's lower back. "What hurt?"

"No, it's okay, I think it's working," Dean assured him, wiggling into the sofa and cushions. "It hurts a bit, but in a good way. I'd like you to hurt me some more like that, Sammy."

"Somewhere, Chuck just threw up a little, having to write that," grumped Sam, "And when it's published, a certain sub-population of fangirls will squee so hard it will disrupt satellite transmissions."

"Seriously, you're good at this," noted Dean, "How the hell is my little brother good at this?"

"I used to do it for Jess," Sam said, "Her back got sore when she was feeling a bit, um, hormonal." He hesitated. "Is it okay if I, um, unhook you? Oh, God, that is so wrong..."

"Go ahead, you sweet-talker, you," smirked Dean, sighing contentedly. "I'll be really impressed if you can undo it one-handed."

"Jerk," Sam replied. A small part of his brain was running around in bewildered circles, screaming repeatedly_ I just undid my big brother's bra, I just undid my big brother's bra, in what universe is it EVER all right for a guy to even think that sentence, I just undid my big brother's bra..._

"If you can manage it, you should eat some chocolate, Dean," decided Castiel, pausing with the comb. "I have procured some good quality truffles. Consumption of chocolate has the beneficial effects of stimulating the production of serotonin and endorphins, sometimes referred to as 'feel-good' chemicals. According to tradition, we should all eat chocolate."

"I could force down some chocolate," decided Dean, stretching out a hand languidly. "Peel me a chocolate, Cas."

The angel obligingly removed a small round chocolate ball from its red wrapper and handed it to Dean.

"So, maybe there are aspects of this whole non-existent assbaby gig that aren't so... Oh. My. God," Dean's eyes went wide.

"What? What is it?" asked Sam immediately.

Dean's eyes continued to bug. "Oh. Oh. Ohhhhhh," he went, "Oh, God. That's amazing. Ohhhhhh, yes, ohhhhhh, that is soooo good, ohhhhh..."

"Dean, I refuse to massage you while you make those noises," Sam stated, "It's just too freaky."

"It's the chocolate, Sam, the chocolate," Dean groaned orgasmically, "You gotta try this stuff. Peel me another one, Cas! Chocolate, chocolate for all!"

"They are from a Swiss chocolatier, which is generally acknowledged to produce better quality chocolates than large scale American brands, although these particular items were manufactured in the company's North American factory," Cas told them as Dean crammed another one into his mouth, making more disturbing noises. "I am glad you like them, Dean."

"Like them? Fuck, I think my tonsils just came," Dean sighed happily, waving his hand for another one. "In fact, you can peel me a dozen, then go back to combing." He addressed Sam. "You may pause briefly in order to consume orgasmically wonderful chocolate," he announced generously.

"Gee, thanks," mumbled Sam, taking a truffle. "Actually, these are pretty good."

Twenty minutes later, Dean was snoring, a gentle smile on his face, which was smeared with chocolate. Jimi climbed onto the sofa for furry heat pack duty.

"If I hadn't have seen it, I would never have believed it," mused Sam. "He was practically purring there for a while."

"I will move him to his bed upstairs shortly," Castiel told him. The angel cocked his head, as if listening to something far off. "Perhaps you could go and tell Bobby that the Girls' Night In is finished, and it is safe to come back inside. He is sorting a spanner set for the third time, and is very much regretting that he did not take a bottle of whisky with him."

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

The next day, Sam wondered briefly if he'd been transported to an alternative reality during the night. Dean was gone, but instead the opposite bed held several piles of neatly folded clean laundry.

"Where's Dean?" he asked as he made his breakfast.

"Not sure," mused Bobby. "I think he's been kidnapped by aliens, or fairies, and they've left a doppelganger in his place."

"Er, why do you think Dean has been body-snatched?" enquired Sam.

"Well, I had my suspicions when he did his first load of laundry before breakfast," Bobby explained. "Then, while the next load was washing, he cleaned out the refrigerator. Now," he jerked a thumb at the window. Outside, Dean was assiduously cleaning out the interior of the Impala.

"I believe that this is nesting behaviour," suggested Castiel. "The nesting instinct is strong in most mammals, and frequently manifests in pregnanty women as an urge to clean and organise their home. It is often an indication that the onset of labour is nearing."

"Not that I'm complaining, mind," Bobby qualified, "If the aliens have taken Dean and left us with a pod person who enjoys housekeeping, I can live with that."

Sam made his way outside as Dean started the vacuum. "Dean, what are you doing, bro?" he asked. Jimi sat nearby, with the now-familiar 'WTF?' expression on his face.

"I thought my Baby needed a little bit of attention," Dean replied cheerfully, pulling a lighter out from under the seat. "And it's about time I gave her a good clean-out. Hey, I wondered where that went."

"You're not supposed to do anything strenuous," Sam reminded him.

"This isn't strenuous," protested Dean, fishing under the seat, "For me, this is relaxing." He frowned, and pulled out what turned out to be a pair of red women's panties. "Oh, I wondered where they went, too," he grinned at Sam's eye-roll. "Unless you're going to try to tell me they're yours."

"You want a hand with this?" Sam asked, "You're not supposed to do any lifting."

"Yeah, okay, you can make a start on the trunk," Dean instructed, poking the wand under the seat. "Pull everything out, I want to give it a good clean-out, and re-grease the jack..." he suddenly stopped, his breath hissing.

"Dean? Are you okay?" Sam eyed him warily.

His brother straightened up. "Yeah, it's just Fred," Dean answered. He peered down at his stomach. "I thought we'd talked about this, Fred," he said sternly, "No kicking Daddy in the intestines, especially after breakfaaaaaAAAAAAARGH!" Dean clutched his midriff. "Aaaaargh! Ow! Not funny, Fred, seriously not funny. Knock it offfAAAAAAAARGH!"

"Dean!" Sam yelped, grabbing his brother as Dean's knees buckled.

"I'm okay, Sammy," Dean reassured him shakily, straightening up again, "I think Fred's trying to tell me he doesn't like tomatoes and yoghurt. But I think Cas would probably object if I tried to eat chocolate for breakfaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAARGH! OwowowowowowowSHIT!"

"Come on, inside," said Sam, grabbing Dean and dragging him back into the house.

"What the hell's wrong with you, boy?" asked Bobby, "Your face is white as a sheet."

"I'm suffering from Annoying Little Brother Syndrome," Dean griped, "One minute I was spending some quality time with my car, the next I'm being manhandled by Francis here..."

He didn't finish his sentence; instead, he wrapped his arms around his midsection and let out an anguished howl.

"Dean! What's wrong, Cas? Something's wrong!" Sam sounded on the edge of panic.

"There is nothing wrong with your brother, Sam," the angel reassured him.

"See? I told you," insisted Dean, "I told him, it's just Fred."

"It is indeed Fred," confirmed the angel. "Sam, I believe your brother is going into labour."


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

It was difficult for Castiel to decide who looked more panicked, Dean, Sam or Bobby.

"Labour?" Sam gulped, "As in, having a baby labour?"

"That is correct, Sam," Castiel told him, "It is the final stage of a pregnancy, even, apparently, an existential one."

"It's okay, Sam," Dean smiled at his brother. The Big Brother Within was unable to help wanting to reassure his baby brother, and immediately set sail for another voyage on the _S.S. Big Bro_, flagship of Dean's Egyptian Luxury Cruises (our mission statement: We'll Have You So Deep In Denial, Your Friends Will Call You Cleopatra!) "See? It's stopped. Fred was just using my colon for accordion practice, that's all. He's been doing that just after breakfast for days."

"That would explain the post-breakfast flatulence," nodded Sam, happy to get on board, and anticipating a pleasant afternoon of completely labour-free shuffleboard.

"So, there is nothing to worry about," Captain Dean reassured him, "I am totally NOT having a baby."

"Dean is essentially correct," Castiel added with certainly.

"He is?" asked Sam, desperately clinging to the angel's statement like a Twilight Mom clutching a cardboard Edward.

"Yes," Castiel went on. "Dean is not having a baby. The flexibility of English, despite its lack of inflection, might better be used to describe this as 'having a not-baby,' or possibly 'not-having a baby', or even the seemingly redundant 'not-having a not-baby', since Fred the existential assbaby is non-existent, but Dean is most definitely experiencing labour."

"Dean?" asked Sam in a small uncertain voice.

"Don't pay any attention to him, Sam," Dean smiled winningly, "He's an angel. What would an angel know about this stuff?"

"He's read books," Sam answered in despair, foreseeing his vacation being ruined by a large Cas-shaped iceberg.

"And just how many books are there to read about non-existing assbaby pregnancyyyyyYYYIEEEEEE!" Dean clutched his midriff again.

"Oh, God," wailed Sam, as Dean dropped onto the sofa, "My big brother's going into not-labour!" He looked suddenly panicked. "What do we do?"

"We boil water, and fetch towels," Bobby told him firmly.

"That will not be necessary, Bobby," Castiel corrected, "The boiling of water for hand-washing was historically necessary for midwives whenever a safe water supply was not immediately available, and boiling of instruments for disinfection became widespread in the 1880s, following Pasteur's demonstration of the germ theory of disease. Hot water was also used for hot compresses intended for pain relief and to soften perineal tissues. In addition, warm water would be needed for washing mother and baby afterwards. However, to a large extent, this is a cinematic device, particularly prevalent in Western movies, and a number of midwives have suggested that it is a ploy to get worried men out of the way and doing something practical, if not particularly useful..."

"I don't care about boilin' instruments or softenin' tissues," observed Bobby wryly, "But if this idjit is going to have a non-existent baby, we are going to need coffee, and lots of it. And I'll need towels, because I may just throw up." He peered at Dean's face. "And I suspect he may just throw up, too."

Dean's face was the same interesting green colour it had been when he'd had morning sickness. "I don't want to not-have a not-assbaby," he said plaintively.

"Your apprehension is perfectly normal," Castiel reassured him, "Any first time mother will naturally experience fear of the unknown when the pain of labour starts. This situation is often exacerbated when other women share stories of unpleasant experiences. For instance, grandmothers-to-be seem to relish recounting the number of stitches they had bearing their own children..."

"Stitches?" Dean's face went from green to white. "You mean, stitches as in muscle cramps, right?"

"Stitches, as in sutures," the angel corrected him, "Following an incision made as prophylaxis against soft tissue trauma of the perineum, in order to prevent second or third degree tearing in the case of a precipitous descent of the baby's head into..."

"I'll just go get some ice, then," muttered Bobby.

"There will probably be no call for ice for a number of hours yet," Castiel told him, "By which time, it will be advisable for Dean not to eat anything else..."

"No, ya idjit assbutt," Bobby rolled his eyes and jerked a thumb at where Sam was carefully manoeuvring Dean's feet up onto the sofa, "You and your grandmothers-to-be made him faint."

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

"I didn't faint," protested Dean some time later, "I just had a very manly dizzy spell."

"Very manly," agreed Sam, looking at his laptop. In the face of a problem to be dealt with, he went into research mode.

"On account of a certain assbutt-with-wings telling me about people getting sewed up after having their asses cut off," growled Dean accusingly, glaring at Castiel.

"My apologies, Dean," the angel said. "It was not my intention to induce vasovagal syncope in you, I merely wished to explain..."

"Well, don't," Dean grumped, wincing. "Owwwww, Fred, seriously, quit dicking around, and just, just, do whatever it is that non-existent assbabies do when they're cooked. Evaporate, or whatever." The cramping eased, and he sighed. "He must be just about ready to, um, go away, I guess," he regarded his stomach thoughtfully.

"Um, possibly not," relayed Sam. "Labour consists of three stages. I think this just the start, because your bouts of Fred aren't close together, and aren't that painful..."

"Not that painful?" echoed Dean incredulously. "Not that painful? Try occupying this meatsuit for a while, and then tell me about 'painful'! Fred is trying to claw his way out of me, Sam, existentially, but in a painfully real way! Think about having a giggling toddler using your intestines for Play-Doh, and then come talk to me about painful!"

"Sam is right," Castiel commented, "Labour is only just beginning. However, you should do whatever you feel your body wants you to, to minimise the discomfort."

"Right, now we're talking," Dean sounded relieved. "I want a fifth of Jack, half a dozen Vicodin, and a pointy stick to poke you with."

"Alcohol and opioid analgesics would be an ill-advised mix at any time," frowned Castiel, "And poking my vessel with a stick would have no effect on the discomfort you are feeling."

"Maybe not," scowled Dean, "But it would make me feel better."

"I think what Cas is getting at is that you should change position, or walk around, or curl up, if that makes you more comfortable," Sam qualified, peering at the laptop. "You don't have to lie down."

"Many women report finding a bath comforting when labour begins," reported the angel.

"I'll try anything at this point," Dean humphed glumly, wincing again. "Are you sure I can't have a pointy stick?" he asked wistfully.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

"Okay, one mug of Sam's Stinky Assbaby Tea," announced Sam, heading into the bathroom. He could hardly see Dean, who was slouched in the tub, the top half of his head barely visible through the foam. "Dude, I didn't know we had any bubble bath."

"We didn't," Dean told him, with a smirk, "I used your shower gel."

"Here ya go, I knew my towel-fetching expertise would come in useful," said Bobby cheerfully, entering the bathroom with an armful of towels. "Picked out the fluffiest ones I could find." He looked around. "Where's Feathers?"

"Said he'd be back in a minute," Dean reported, bobbing gently in the water, "Said he had something to organise. Maybe he's gone to fetch me some Heavenly drugs?" he suggested hopefully.

That idea was quickly dispelled when the bathroom suddenly got very crowded.

"I am back, Dean," announced Castiel gravely, from where he stood up to his knees in bubbles at the other end of the tub.

"Aaaaaaaargh!" yelped Dean. "There's no getting through to you, is there?" he fumed.

"He really didn't have a choice, bro," Sam pointed out, indicating the six other people that had materialised with the angel. "Be grateful that he didn't land in your lap."

"If you've suddenly decided to try for a new world record for the number of people who can fit into one bathroom, I suggest to you that your timing could be better," commented Bobby, from where he was squashed against the vanity.

"My apologies, Bobby," intoned Castiel, "These are angels, some of my younger brothers and sisters." A couple of the angels, smiled shyly. One gave him a little wave.

"What, so crammin' 'em onto the head of a pin is considered too old fashioned these days?" asked Bobby.

"My reading indicated that many women find that soothing music helps relieve the pain and anxiety of labour," reported the angel, "And as Dean's doula, it is my duty to assist him through this experience in any way I can. These angels are members of the Heavenly Choir. Anomiel is considered to be a talented composer; he was worked with Tenumiel, who is well-versed in Earthly literature and is deemed in Heaven to have unsurpassed knowledge of vernacular speech." Two of the young vessels blushed to be singled out for their talents. "When I explained the situation, they offered to write some music that might ease Dean's distress at this time."

"Wow, that's… amazing," commented Sam. "It's truly an amazing honour – isn't it, Dean?"

Dean bobbed and winced. "Yeah," he agreed, "Right now I'm feeling so honoured, I may just put off drowning myself for a few moments more out of morbid curiosity."

"Very well, they shall sing for you," nodded Castiel, a small smile on his face. He nodded to the angels, and they began.

It was… there were no words to describe it. It was beyond sublime. It was unlike anything the Winchesters, or in fact any humans, had ever heard before. They could not sing in their True Voices, yet the angelic ensemble did their best to render with human voices the essence of the songs that they raised in joyful praise unto their Father. It was of unearthly beauty, it was indescribably uplifting, and it was in eight-part harmony, which was incredible considering that there were only six of them.

_O Hail unto the Righteous Man who Hunts and kills the evil things,  
><em>_Who taught our brother Castiel how not to be a dick with wings,  
><em>_Who with his brother thwarted the Apocalypse and Heaven's war,  
><em>_Who suffers as his existential labour makes his guts feel sore._

_For unto you shall not be born a not-real child, assbaby Fred,  
><em>_And though you think you'd rather gouge your eyes out with a spork instead,  
><em>_Your brother Sam and Castiel will be your doulas, offer succour  
><em>_As you scream and writhe in pain, and swear and curse the little fucker._

_Lord God decreed that Mankind's children be brought forth in suffering,  
><em>_Since Eve and Adam ate some fruit, and that was deemed a naughty thing.  
><em>_Yet out of this excruciating pain comes new life, pure and good –  
><em>_And soon you'll know the joy of not-real non-assbaby fatherhood,_

_So scream and yell and shriek and curse, and wail and howl, blaspheme away,  
><em>_Just do whatever works to keep the agonising pain at bay,  
><em>_And once non-labour's over you will go back to the Hunt, and then,  
><em>_May we suggest you do your best to not piss off a witch again?_

_Aaaaaaaaaaaaamen._

The last ethereal strains died away. Dean sat with his jaw hanging open.

"You wrote that for me?" he asked incredulously. Anomiel and Tenumiel blushed again, and nodded shyly.

"That was… er… words fail me," he stuttered finally. "There are no words to describe that performance. It was unlike anything I have ever experienced. Um. Thank you. Thank you very much. I am honoured and humbled by your… beautiful song. Thank you, Cas, it was… a very doula thing to do." He smiled slightly desperately.

The angelic choristers beamed ecstatically at each other, and Castiel smiled fondly at them, and at Dean. "I hope it has helped," he said dotingly. He nodded to the angels, and with cheerful waves, they disappeared in a swirl of flapping noises.

"That really was… indescribable. Er," commented Bobby.

"The matching trench-coats was a nice touch," Sam said, "Made them look like a real, um, choir."

"It appears to have assisted Dean, also," Castiel smiled indulgently, "And will perhaps aid in the transition to…"

Suddenly, like a killer whale breaching, Dean shot up out of the water, spraying bubbles everywhere.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA AAAAAAAAARRRRRRR RRRRRGGGGHHHHH!"

"I'll just go boil some more water, shall I?" squeaked Bobby, scuttling out of the bathroom.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

"You are doing very well, Dean," Castiel said seriously, some hours later. Sam nodded vigorously.

"AAAAAAARGH FUCKYOU YOUWINGEDDICK!" screamed Dean. "AAAAAAARGH! OHGOD FRED IS KILLING MEEEEEEE! YOU LITTLE ASSBABY BASTAAAAAARD AAAAAAAAARGH!" He sank his teeth into the end of the sofa.

"No he's not, Dean," Sam sounded just as anxious as his brother, "This is normal…"

"ARE YOU NUTS? !" screeched Dean. "I am in labour with a non-existent assbaby! How can that POSSIBLY be NORMAL? ? ?" He curled up, moaning. "Ooohhhh, that huuuuuurts…"

"Controlled breathing is suggested for coping with severe contractions," Castiel told him. "A pattern of short breaths followed by a long exhalation focuses attention away from the pain, and instils a sense of control."

"Yeah, yeah, I read about that," agreed Sam, "It's part of the Lamaze Method."

"Ohnoohnoohno it's starting again," wailed Dean.

"It's okay, Dean, breathe through it," encouraged Sam, grabbing his brother's hand. "Short breaths, then a long one out, like this, hee hee hee hee hee hee hoooooo…"

"Shit shit shit shit shit shit fuuuuuuuuuuuck!" gasped Dean, clutching Sam's hand.

"Aaargh Dean myhand myhand myhand hee hee hee hee hee hee," went Sam, his eyes crossing as Dean's grip ground bones together.

"Shit shit shit shit shit shit fuuuuuuuuuuuck!"

"Ow ow ow ow ow ow ow Deeeeeeeeean!"

"Shit shit shit shit shit shit fuuuuuuuuuuuck!"

"Ow ow ow ow ow ow ow Deeeeeeeeean!"

"SHUT UP!" Dean shouted at his brother. "Don't you 'Dean' me! This is all because of you!" Sam blinked in bewilderment as Dean ranted. "You found that job for us! You had to go and send us after a witch who was messing with fertility! This is ALL YOUR FAULT, Sam! _YOU DID THIS TO MEEEEEEEE!"_ He collapsed back against the cushions, panting. Castiel dabbed at his red, sweating face with a damp cloth.

"I think he broke my hand," said Sam in a small voice.

"I'll get you some ice," trilled Bobby, fleeing for the kitchen.

"He did not," the angel reassured Sam, "He is in a lot of pain, and liable to say things that he does not mean, he cannot help it..."

"DON'T PATRONISE ME YOU SELF-RIGHTEOUS KNOW-IT-ALL FEATHER DUSTERRRRAAAARGH!" howled Dean, clutching at Sam. "DO SOMETHIIIIIIIING!"

"Er, Dean…" began Sam.

"OhGodohGodohGodohGodohGod will this pain ever end?" moaned Dean.

"Er, Dean…" Sam tried again.

"I hate this," Dean practically sobbed, "I hate this, I hate Fred, I hate you, I hate everything…"

"Glrrrk," went Sam.

"That is perfectly understandable," soothed Castiel, "And we realise that you do not mean it. However, at this point, I feel compelled to point out that you are no longer holding Sam's hand. You do in fact have him in a head-lock, and his face is turning a rather concerning shade of blue."

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

It went on. And on. And on. Dean yelled and cursed, Castiel dabbed and reassured, Bobby boiled water, and Sam sustained considerable soft tissue injury to both hands, in between cyanotic episodes. Jimi lay on the floor with his paws over his head in a way that Sam had thought was only ever done by cartoon dogs to indicate that the animal sensed something catastrophic was going to happen.

Dean was exhausted. "I can't do this anymore," he groaned with a sob, apparently not entirely coherent. "I can't do this any more, I can't do this any more…"

"Yes you can," Sam told him, "You're doing great. Any other guy would've given up and cut his own head off hours ago, but not Dean Winchester, Living Sex God and all-around awesomely cool badass guy. That's the reason there's no such thing as assbabies, Dean, because no other guy is tough enough to go through this."

"I want it to stop," wailed Dean.

"I believe that your labour is nearing it's conclusion," announced Castiel, "And that it will stop soon, Dean, you must endure a little more and then it will end…"

"No, no, no," Dean chanted, "No no no no no, it's starting again, no no no no no nononono NONONONONONO AAAAAAARGHHHH! _AAAAARRRRRGH!_" Veins stood out in his neck.

"Hang in there, bro, hang in there!" urged Sam.

"AAAAAAA _AAAAAAA_ AAAAAAAA _AAAAAAAA _AAAAAAA _**AAAAAAA**_ _**AAAAAAA **__**AAAAAAAAARGH!**_" Dean let out a piercing screech, his whole body going rigid.

Then he collapsed into the sofa.

The sudden silence was startling. "Is it… um… over?" asked Sam tentatively.

Castiel stared hard at Dean. "Yes," he decided. "Dean is no longer existentially pregnant. Fred the non-existent assbaby is not there. Congratulations, Dean, you have dealt with Fred."

"Fred?" repeated Dean, eyelids fluttering. "Where's Fred?"

"He's, er, out, bro," grinned Sam, "You've done it!"

"Where's Fred?" Dean repeated, sounding demanding. "Where's Fred? I want Fred!"

"Huh?" Sam's jaw dropped.

"Fred!" Dean called desperately, "Fred! Where's Fred? I want Fred!"

"He is exhausted and confused, Sam," said Castiel, "He thinks he has given birth, and naturally, his first inclination is to hold his baby."

"But there isn't a baby!" replied Sam, perplexed, "Fred the non-existent assbaby was never real!"

"Freeeeeed!" Dean sounded distressed.

"Oh, ya pair of idjits," Bobby's eye-roll was practically audible. He selected a blue towel from the piles he had carefully placed around the room, and wrapped it around Jimi's head. With little urging, the dog eagerly climbed onto the sofa, and snuggled up to Dean.

"Fred," he smiled dreamily at the grinning dog, "You look just like your Daddy, you handsome thing."

He cuddled Jimi contentedly, and fell asleep.

* * *

><p>One more chapterlet to finish off, I think, then I'll stop torturing Dean. For now.<p>

Reviews are the Sublime Personalised Angelic Hymns in the Bathroom Of Life!


	10. Chapterlet 10

**Chapterlet 10**

"Mornin' Dad," said Bobby, when Dean joined them in the kitchen late the next morning, "How's non-fatherhood?"

"Or non non-fatherhood, since it's a non-existent kid that now no longer, um, non-exists," suggested Sam.

"It's awesome!" grinned Dean. "My own clothes are comfortable, I slept like a log, and best of all…" he leaned into the fridge, and re-emerged with a slice of salami between his teeth. "I gan 'ave grilled jeese for greakfast! And geer!" he announced happily.

"Maybe you can make do with coffee, and wait until the sun is over the yardarm before you hit the booze, son," frowned Bobby.

"Somewhere on this planet, it's beer o'clock," asserted Dean. "And cheese o'clock, and mayonnaise o'clock, and hotdog o'clock… yeah, I guess right here and now, it's coffee o'clock," he sighed as he accepted a steaming mug from Bobby. "Mmmmmm, coffee," he hummed contentedly, "The nectar of the gods." He looked thoughtful. "Do you have any paté, Bobby?"

"Do I look like the kind of guy who has a refrigerator packed full of paté, ya idjit?" Bobby rolled his eyes. "Sure. Help yourself. It's right there, next to the caviar, behind the smoked salmon, on the shelf below the bottle of truffle oil. Help yourself. If we run out, I'll send the butler to fetch us some more."

"Dean, you don't even like paté," Sam pointed out.

"But I can eat it if I want!" smiled Dean. "Hey, for lunch, I want sushi, steak tartare, and a giant, ultramegaturbo thickshake."

"I better fetch some more towels," decided Bobby, "Because I have a feeling I'm going to throw up if I have to see you eat that."

Later that day, Sam took a break from his research into their next job, grabbed two beers from the refrigerator, and went outside to find his big brother. Dean had resumed his clean-out of the Impala, and was singing cheerfully, if somewhat off-key, as he worked.

"Look at me, Sam!" he called chirpily, "Look at me! I'm bending over! I'm picking stuff up!" He grabbed one bottle from Sam. "I'm drinking beer!"

"Yeah, it's the simple things in life that make you happy," Sam smiled. "So, no more Fred.'

"No, no more Fred," Dean agreed thoughtfully.

"You sounded like you really wanted him, for a minute there, after he'd, er, non-arrived," Sam told his brother.

"Yeah," sighed Dean, "I guess I did. Weird, huh? After the little bastard tried to gut me with my own appendix. I guess I just felt I should have something to show for all that. God, I have no idea how any woman ever has more that one kid. If I could get pregnant, I'd have my legs sewn together after the first one."

"It did look kinda painful," Sam agreed. "Still, you got angels to write a heavenly hymn for you. That was pretty cool."

"I just wondered what he'd have been like, if he was real, an actual little Mini-me," Dean looked a little wistful. "I had this weird dream, I was in this school assembly hall, it was a graduation, and they announced the valedictorian, and it was Frederick Samuel Winchester. Only some other kid had to deliver the speech he'd written, because he wasn't there, on account of having to be in England for his first season as a Formula One driver, which meant deferring his scholarship to Yale, but he could fit his modelling career around the racing season."

"Talented kid," commented Sam with amusement.

"Yeah," agreed Dean, "Then I woke up with Jimi, and couldn't work out who the drool had come from." He raised his beer. "To Fred, my first non-born, who would've been a totally awesome kid."

"To Fred." They clinked bottles, and drank.

"Anyway, you found our next job yet?" Dean asked.

"I think I have," Sam told him. "It's in Colorado, small town south of Denver. In the last three months, fourteen otherwise unremarkable and well-adjusted young women with no histories of mental illness, troubled childhoods or trouble with the law have gone crazy, and committed acts of extreme violence, some cases leading to charges of murder."

"What are you thinking, possession? Demon or angry spirit?"

"Something like that, although we'll have to do some more digging when we get there," Sam said.

"Sounds like our kind of gig," grinned Dean. "We can leave tomorrow. Notify the tabloid magazines, Sammy - it's time for the Living Sex God to re-emerge, and dazzle the women of Colorado with the awesomeness of his post-baby body."

The next morning, Dean insisted that Sam and Bobby join him for a ritual salting and burning of what he referred to as the Berlei Hoistmeister 5000. "May it rot in lingerie Hell forever," he intoned with satisfaction.

They left the smouldering remains of the maternity bra gently smoking, and hit the road.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

In Colorado, they figured out pretty quickly what was going on, and put a stop to it – it was in fact a witch. They found her, ganked her, and escaped almost unscathed…

"You'll never learn, will you?" sobbed Sam, clutching his pillow, "You'll never learn. After he got himself existentially pregnant, you'd think that Dean could learn not to piss off witches, but nooooo, you had to go and do it again…"

"I'm sorry, Sam," Dean sounded truly contrite, "But you didn't have to get in the way like that. Why did you get in the way like that? You're not supposed to get in the way like that!"

"Are you kidding?" sniffled Sam, "After your last experience with getting hit by half-a-spell from a pissed off witch? You think I could watch my brother go through that again? You thoughtless jerk!" He buried his face in his pillow.

The microwave in the small kitchenette beeped, and Dean opened it, holding his nose. "Here," he said, handing the wheat bag to Sam, "I got you one of the lavender ones. The girl at the drug store said they're really good for… that."

"Thanks," mumbled Sam, clutching it to his stomach.

"Look on the bright side," Dean tried to cheer his brother up, "I hung onto her grimoire this time!" He brandished the small book. "I called Bobby," he continued, "He thinks you were right. She was just a vicious old hag, cursing those young women with occultly turbo-charged, nitro-sucking PMS out of sheer spite. The good news is, he's sure it's a one-time only thing, so this won't happen to you again next month. You won't feel like this for more than another day or two."

"Right, right, that makes me feel so much better right now," howled Sam, breaking out into fresh sobs.

"Oh, Sammy," said Dean softly, sitting by his brother and rubbing his back gently, "Tell me what I can do to make you feel better."

"Cut your own balls off with a rusty hacksaw!" Sam hissed viciously. "It's your testosterone-poisoned brain that makes you unable to stop yourself from pissing off witches, isn't it, Dean? You just gotta be a cocky, arrogant, alpha asshole!" Jimi whined, and climbed onto the bed with his Second, who pulled the covers over his head, cuddled into the dog and moaned.

"Okay, um, well, let's leave that as a remedy of last resort," suggested Dean carefully. ("He'll be hormonal and difficult to reason with," Bobby had cautioned him, "Remember, if you decide to try junk food, put it down then back away slowly without breaking eye contact; a sufferer of PMS can smell fear.") He busied himself in the kitchenette.

"There you go," he said in a pleasant voice, "We have these left over…"

A feral growl sounded from under the covers. Jimi sat up and whined.

"Yeah, you can smell these, can't you?" grinned Dean.

Sam's head emerged from under the covers, hair wildly tousled, wearing the bowel-watering expression that had perplexed, bewildered and terrified men since the dawn of humanity. He bared his teeth at Dean, nose twitching.

"Okay, then," Dean continued in a calm voice, "I've peeled these for you, so all you have to do is help yourself, but only if you want to. Cas left us quite a supply, so there's plenty more where they came from."

Carefully and confidently, he put down the plate of Lindor chocolate truffle balls on the bed, then backed away slowly, holding his brother's stare. "They're all yours, bro."

Sam broke eye contact first. With a snarl to rival one of Jimi's, he fell on the plate of chocolates, and began eating them, making noises reminiscent of a large predator tearing chunks of meat from its latest kill.

Dean smiled, and sat on his own bed, behind the protective line of lettuce leaves that Bobby had assured him would repel Sam while he was afflicted with PMS.

"Feel free to use as much hot water as you like," he mentioned casually, "If you decide you'd like to take a relaxing bath."

A scowling, chocolate-smeared face paused briefly, and grunted an acknowledgement.

Dean picked up the remote, and started flicking through the channels. After what they'd been through with the existential pregnancy, of course he would do everything he could to help Sam through his own occultly-induced hormonal crisis.

Up to and including feeding him Swiss chocolates carefully laced with antihistamine.

When Sam was snoring gently, Dean picked up his jacket and keys, going over his shopping list in his head. Cookies, doughnuts, bubble bath, camomile tea bags, Midol, and of course he'd have to peel more Lindor balls for Sam, keep him constantly supplied with chocolate… With Bobby's help, he had worked out a strategy that he was confident would keep his brother from becoming hormonally homicidal before the spell wore off. Because he was, after all, Sam's big brother.

Before he left, he paused to take a photo of Sam, wild-haired, chocolate-smeared and cuddling the dog. Because he was, after all, Sam's big brother.

**THE END**

* * *

><p>Haha, another plot bunny stomped! Skewered with its own 'mpreg' sign! Die, furry and disturbing little vermin! Now I shall attempt to get on with finishing 'Best of Breed', where those who were getting a bit queasy about existentiallypregnant!Dean will be glad to know that he can get on with being cool, badass and awesome. Although, as Sam pointed out, I think that surviving Fred made him pretty cool, badass and awesome. After all, this is Dean we're talking about. Ask the Deangirls, they'll tell you: Dean is so cool, he can chill your beer just by handing it to you. Dean is so badass, that if he needed to iron a shirt, he'd do it himself - while he was wearing it. He's so awesome, strippers pay him to watch their acts.<p>

Reviews are the Lindor Balls accompanying the Cup Of Hot Beverage Of Life! Seriously, if you've never eaten Lindt chocolate of some description, find some, buy some, beg some, steal some, pester someone until they give you some. But I warn you, it will turn you into a chocolate snob: you'll never be satisifed with Cadbury or Hershey muck again.


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